


Fool's Gold

by babyrubysoho



Series: Bombshell [3]
Category: Big Bang (Band), GTOP (Band)
Genre: Age Difference, Alternate Universe - 1910s, Alternate Universe - Not K-Pop Idols, Alternate Universe - Prohibition Era, Chicago (City), Daddy Issues, Family Drama, Implied/Referenced Underage Prostitution, M/M, Period Typical Bigotry, Sex Work, Sugar Daddy, Very Eventual GTOP
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-12-01
Updated: 2019-12-28
Packaged: 2021-02-26 04:28:37
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 4
Words: 50,644
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/21627616
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/babyrubysoho/pseuds/babyrubysoho
Summary: Jiyong gave his quarry a closer inspection and smiled at what he saw: the young man was tall and strikingly handsome. Jiyong couldn’t say young and handsome men were particularly his type, but then again he didn’t meet many of ‘em. Better than his good looks, noted Jiyong, was that he was Asian! Jiyong had never kissed such an attractive and unusual specimen before; he’d be theperfectbirthday present.(A prequel to the ficsSecond City BombshellandTales From The Top: exploring Jiyong’s teenage life in 1910s Chicago, the precarious relationship he forms with one of its most powerful leaders – and how he reaches the point at which he might just risk it all for a penniless Chemistry student.)
Series: Bombshell [3]
Series URL: https://archiveofourown.org/series/1385098
Comments: 52
Kudos: 30





	1. Don't You Wish You Were Back Home Again

**Author's Note:**

> I'm aware that this is a pretty niche fic, as it only gets to the actual GTOP riiiight at the end. This is basically a Jiyong origin story, but if you enjoyed my other fics in the _Bombshell_ series you might find it interesting :)
> 
> NOTE: This is _very far away_ from being a depiction of a healthy relationship; however, as the narration is from Jiyong's POV that isn't always going to come across. Basically, please read responsibly ^^

The first thing that occurred to Jiyong when he woke up was that he had no idea where he was. For an instant he was panicked by the sensation of weight and softness all around him, a luxury of sheets and eiderdown and pillows shielding him from the Chicago chill. Then he turned his head – and remembered.

The second thing that occurred to him was that it was amazing he’d managed to sleep at all after what had happened. It felt like a dream – what kind of dream he wasn’t sure. But no: there in the huge bed beside him was the same kooky old man who’d plucked him from the train station, only now he was wearing hotel pajamas and spectacles and was reading the newspaper like this was any ordinary morning. Perhaps to him it was. Jiyong peered warily around the room, then back at his – what? His new boss? His rescuer? Kidnapper? Okay, that was pretty dramatic. He was simply too confused to figure it out by himself; so for now he’d just have to roll with the guy’s name, which was the only thing he could recall: Mr. Insull.

Just then the man turned and caught Jiyong staring at him owlishly. Jiyong drew back on instinct but Mr. Insull didn’t react: didn’t look pleased, or pissed, or _anything_. How were you meant to respond to such a blank wall? Jiyong didn’t know, so he wisely kept his mouth shut.

“You slept well,” observed Mr. Insull neutrally. Jiyong gave a hesitant nod; he’d have agreed with anything the guy said at this point. “I thought you might not,” continued the older man, folding up the newspaper. Jiyong nodded again, felt his ears turning red. He’d certainly lain awake for ages, clutching the downy covers to him as if they were the teddy bear he’d given up to Dami years ago, as soon as she’d been old enough to grab it. He’d had nothing so comforting since; but he’d needed something last night, lying there on edge and exhausted, listening to his companion’s even breathing in the dark.

“…I’m okay,” he told Mr. Insull and himself. And he was, wasn’t he? Nothing they’d done up here before sleeping had _hurt_ , after all – and Jiyong had lived a rough childhood, he knew what pain was. He’d known what _that_ was, too, the thing they’d done: you didn’t grow up in the South Side’s slum streets without figuring out what fucking was pretty quick – the stuff he’d seen! Even his parents had done it, at least ‘til the accident. And whatever sin Jiyong had committed in that big imposing bathroom had been something like it but _not_ it: a restrained, painless version of what he knew could happen between two people. His body carried no mark of it, no bruises; so why did it still linger? What was it that had made him cry afterwards, brushing his teeth alone in front of the mirror and unable to look himself in the eye? Dimly Jiyong wondered if there was such a thing as a bruise of the mind.

“Are you hungry?” inquired Mr. Insull, and Jiyong promptly forgot his own meandering questions ‘cos this one was more important, the most important anyone could ask him.

“Yeah!” he replied without a pause, and pulled himself up on his elbows. Another meal, already! No wonder the rich were so tall.

“Yes,” said the old man drily. Jiyong couldn’t tell if that was a simple confirmation or a correction of his language. He gave Mr. Insull a smile to be on the safe side and saw the man’s moustache twitch; what did that mean? He was still wondering as Mr. Insull picked up the telephone – a telephone in a bedroom, the luxury! – and ordered what sounded like breakfast. Jiyong didn’t recognize the accent any better now than he had yesterday, but it oozed class: even without this crazy gorgeous hotel room you’d know the guy was a toff. “Get dressed,” the older man suggested once he’d replaced the handset. Jiyong was suddenly very aware of his own nakedness, and for a moment felt hot with embarrassment; he didn’t know why, he’d bared every inch of himself last night when he was stripping and stepping into the bath (bubbles, in a bath! Madness!) under the intent and steely gaze of his new acquaintance.

He clenched his jaw and slid outta bed, face glowing scarlet, but when he glanced back Mr. Insull was reading the paper again as if Jiyong wasn’t even there; still, he suspected the guy was taking note of everything he did. When he found his clothes folded neatly on a sofa – who’d done that? Surely not this rich swell, maybe a hotel maid – Jiyong felt himself blush again: they looked so pitiful in contrast with the pretty things around him. He was almost ashamed to put them on, and more so when Mr. Insull gave them a silent inventory from the bed; they must look even worse by daylight than they had under the dim station electrics. No wonder the man had made him take a bath.

A knock at the door heralded breakfast. Mr. Insull didn’t even leave the bed ‘til the waiter had gone (with an arch look at Jiyong, perched there small and uncomfortable on the sofa). Then he put on a dressing gown and slippers, real silk and velvet – Jiyong wanted to touch them, just to see what they felt like – and pulled up to the table, gesturing for the boy to do the same. Jiyong didn’t need telling twice: after last night’s huge dinner and what had come after he thought he’d never be hungry again, but his stomach was insisting otherwise.

“Slow down,” Mr. Insull told him. “Use the knife too.” His tone was so dispassionate Jiyong couldn’t figure out if that was a suggestion, an instruction or a real scolding; the gray eyes beneath their gray eyebrows were too cool to read. He wasn’t used to this: back home everyone told you exactly what they thought of you in no uncertain terms, often at full volume. Now he was uneasy, not knowing what might please this stranger or what might make him snap – or, more pressingly, what was coming next.

“…Sir,” he said tentatively after some busy food-filled silence. Mr. Insull raised an eyebrow a minute amount. Jiyong swallowed and twisted the linen napkin in his lap. “What happens now?”

“Now?”

“Um…” The guy was gunna think he was so impertinent! “You said you could give me a job,” Jiyong reminded him in a small voice. “Could you maybe introduce me today?” He was awfully afraid that this would be where he was instantly dismissed and sent home, after whatever…well, whatever the hell yesterday had been. To his surprise he saw Mr. Insull’s eyes crinkle up, the lines around them deepening; was that a _smile_?

“That is precisely what I intended.” Jiyong tried to hide his sigh of relief, and failed.

“What kinda job is it?”

“It’s this,” said Mr. Insull with what sounded like the tiniest bit of amusement. He took a bite of toast; Jiyong frowned. “I would like to look after you,” the older man explained. “Your job will be to let me.” For a minute all Jiyong could do was gawp at him stupidly. “I wish you to live where I place you,” Mr. Insull clarified further. “To eat what is good for your body and read what is good for your mind.”

“…That’s _all_?”

“Not quite. To wear what I choose to put on you; and to remove it at my request.” Jiyong had another vivid flash of the previous night, and gulped. He didn’t think he wanted to do that again; it’d made him feel peculiar, in all sorts of ways. Even so, he knew it was a generous offer: to be warm and clean and fed and clothed in return for the odd hour’s discomfort – it was a huge step up from the position he’d been in just yesterday. And if he really couldn’t handle it…well, he was practiced at running away.

“…Okay,” he said quietly to the tablecloth. When he lifted his eyes the posh old crackpot was looking at him the way he had at dinner. Jiyong couldn’t figure out if that stare was admiring or critical or just evaluative, but it sure was intense.

“Good,” replied Mr. Insull. And then, leaning back in his chair and speaking in a slightly softer tone: “You are quite lovely.” Once again Jiyong’s face flooded with color; but this was a different sensation, one he’d never had before. He couldn’t put a name to it – but he thought he might get to like it.

* * *

Jiyong sat and stared around open-mouthed at the apartment. He’d tried to restrain himself from gasping as Mr. Insull had ushered him in, but now that the man had left him here – with a promise to join him again for dinner – he felt free to let it blow his mind. It was big and beautiful, like a palace: on the sixth floor of a swankier building than the hotel, the furnishings and upholstery even lusher than the interior of the enormous car in which Mr. Insull had brought him here. It had… He trotted round to explore. …Seven rooms! That was four more than his folks’ house, and they had three kids. And it was all for _him_?

He daringly unlocked the balcony door and went outside. There before him was Lake Michigan, glinting in the rare fall sun – it looked so different from up here! Before long he was shivering so he went back in, and was impressed once again that the place was warm. How was it heated? There was a fire in the living room but it wasn’t lit. Was it the power of money that warded away the cold? He took a more leisurely look around, playing with the electric light switches in fascination. He didn’t know what the decoration style was called but he knew he liked it, all pretty curves and swooping lines like flowers. There was another telephone in a room with a big desk, and another mountain-size bed with a snowfall of eiderdown beneath a ceiling painted the color of a duck’s egg. He loved all of it: somehow it fed his eyes the same way the luscious breakfast pastries had fed his stomach.

Jiyong wasn’t sure how he was supposed to fill the long hours ‘til Mr. Insull’s return. He didn’t know what he was allowed to _touch_ , and he was too afraid of the old man to take any liberties. If he’d been home he’d have been busy: trying to get the girls to school, soothing his crippled father’s moods, looking for any odd job that would pay him, and during the worst of times staking out an unguarded market stall from which he might snatch some food. If he got caught doing that he’d be thrashed, by the stall owner or one of his parents, but more often than not it was worth the risk. He couldn’t imagine what people of leisure did to fill up their days.

The gilt clock chimed every so often, as if to hammer home the fact that he _wasn’t_ at home. Would his mom be worried yet? Would his dad be angry? Dami would be okay, he knew – he hoped she could cope with little Soomin by herself. Jiyong brushed away a couple of tears: no good thinking about that right now! At least they’d have more to eat with him gone. To distract himself he wandered into the grand bathroom, examined the porcelain sink and the enormous tub with lion’s feet, and what must be a shower – he’d never seen one before. He considered taking another bath, to while away the time and maybe rid himself of that tight, flushed feeling that came over him whenever he remembered himself in the soapy water, Mr. Insull sitting beside the tub in his shirt-sleeves. Just as he reached out to turn the right-hand tap – H for ‘hot’, another luxury! – there came a knock at the apartment door.

“…Yeah?” said Jiyong, opening it in some trepidation to find a teenage boy in a wine-and-gold uniform – this building even had its own bellhops, it seemed – with a skinny middle-aged egg in a smart suit behind him. Neither of them waited before sailing in. Jiyong hovered there perplexed while the man, who was carrying a suitcase, gave the boy a coin and sent him on his way. The teenager shot one fascinated look at Jiyong as he left; then it was only the two of them. “‘Scuse me,” ventured Jiyong, on his best behavior in case this guy was important, “but who are you?”

“Oh, you speak English! You can call me Mr. Pritchard,” stated the man before setting an unceremonious hand in the small of Jiyong’s back and marching him through to the sitting room where the light was brightest. Jiyong was starting to be really worried when the older man added: “Tailor; I got a call from your patron to come over.”

“What’s a-” began Jiyong, puzzled at the latter word, but Pritchard shushed him bossily and opened his case.

“Take off those clothes and stand by the window.” And, at Jiyong’s look of fright: “You can leave your underthings on.”

“…Don’t have any,” mumbled Jiyong, ashamed to say so in front of this perfectly-dressed person. Pritchard shook his head in obvious disbelief – he signaled his reactions much clearer than Mr. Insull – but sighed and produced a pile of garments and a measuring tape.

“Go try these on, then,” he ordered, setting several of the items in Jiyong’s hands. Jiyong blinked at him but disappeared behind a Chinese screen and stripped. To him the clothes appeared very fine: gray plaid pants and a crisp shirt, a little vest and jacket to match. They felt good against his skin; he shivered a bit pulling them on, in pure pleasure. He guessed Mr. Insull wanted him to match his surroundings better, no doubt for the old man’s benefit – but in this, at least, Jiyong wasn’t complaining.

“They’re dandy!” he told Pritchard, hoping to sweeten him up. The tailor merely pulled a face and began measuring him.

“You’re smaller than I thought,” he complained as he did so. “How old did he say you were?”

“I’ll be fourteen soon!” Jiyong announced crossly; he got this from everyone. “Well…soonish.”

“You’ve got some serious catching up to do, then.” Pritchard scrawled down a list of numbers and thrust another pair of pants, some underwear, a shirt and a soft wool sweater at Jiyong. “You can make do with these for now; I’ll have the rest altered and the overcoat made and delivered by the end of the week.”

“Really?!” exclaimed Jiyong, giddy at the feeling of wealth.

“Naturally!” Pritchard aimed a not-so-subtle sneer at Jiyong’s discarded clothes. “And the bootmaker’ll call tomorrow.” He snapped the case shut. “You think the richest man in Chicago’s going to let any ward of his walk around looking like _that_?”

Jiyong didn’t have an answer to that, but it sure gave him something to think about for the rest of the afternoon.

* * *

“Well, and how do you like your new home?” asked Mr. Insull upon his return. It was almost seven o’clock and Jiyong had been going stir-crazy with nothing to do, but he quit being bored and began feeling anxious the second the old bird walked in.

“It’s pretty,” he replied, jumping off the immaculate sofa at the thought that he might get a scolding for sitting on it. For an instant Mr. Insull looked pleased at the boy’s apparent eagerness to greet him; then he exhaled through his nose.

“You need not be afraid to touch anything; you may do as you like in here.” Jiyong took this to mean he might sit down again. The man (‘richest man in Chicago’, he’d have to find out more about _that_ ) took a seat at the other end of the sofa, removing the jacket of his three-piece suit and folding it tidily over the back of the cushions. Watching him Jiyong found himself tense up, wondering if Mr. Insull wanted them to do that _thing_ again – or something even more grownup and worrying. But the guy just complimented him on his new clothes, then began to quiz him about the tailor. That didn’t take long to tell, and as soon as Jiyong was finished dinner arrived.

They ate in the sparkling dining room, everything set out by yet another waiter. Jiyong hadn’t known there were such things as catered apartments but it seemed the rich could have every whim satisfied even when not in a hotel.

“How long have you lived here?” he asked after a while, to break the silence and stop himself gobbling the delicious food (salmon and the creamiest mashed potatoes and a rich white sauce) like a starving dog.

“Don’t talk with your mouth full.” Jiyong swallowed hurriedly under that stare, and added this rule to the growing list of manners he’d have to find room for in his head. For a minute the man didn’t respond, and it occurred to Jiyong that after a day at work – wait, _did_ he work? – perhaps he enjoyed the quiet. But: “I don’t live here,” Mr. Insull told him. “I stay here when I need to be in town: late meetings, dinners, the Opera.”

“Oh!” said Jiyong, trying to hide his surprise; this beautiful place was nothing but a _convenience_?

“I live in the country with my wife,” continued Mr. Insull calmly. Jiyong nodded; of course he did! Adults got married, that was a given. Not for the last time he began to wonder a great many things about _Mrs_. Insull. “Is there anything else you wish to know?” asked the older man. He didn’t sound annoyed. Jiyong kept a weather eye on the moustache, vaguely aware that it could reveal the secret of his moods; he thought Mr. Insull looked slightly tickled, as if Jiyong was the only person in America who knew nothing about him.

“…Have you got any kids?”

“A son.” The moustache lifted a fraction of an inch. “He is studying at Yale and will work with me at my company.” Jiyong couldn’t find it in himself to be interested in a grown-up son, though he should’ve guessed it by the man’s near-white hair.

“What _is_ your job?” he asked instead. He’d figured Mr. Insull was old money; what kinda work would such a wealthy man stoop to take?

“I sell electricity,” Mr. Insull informed him. Jiyong didn’t understand ‘til much later what a gross over-simplification that was. He didn’t know yet about the tycoon’s dozens of directorships and presidencies, his relationship with Thomas Edison or his hold on the Midwest transport network and art world. He only knew that it sounded like deadly dull employment. Mr. Insull didn’t elaborate and Jiyong didn’t press him further, and the dinner continued in silence, broken only by the older man’s corrections to his new pet’s table manners.

After dessert – Jiyong didn’t know what it was called but it was cold and sweet and tingled on his tongue – Mr. Insull gestured him back to the living room and took a seat beside him on the sofa to read the evening paper. Jiyong was finding the quiet and the uncertainty of what would please his new employer both worrisome and boring; he tried not to fidget, but he wasn’t comfortable: his legs were too short to reach the carpet and his socked feet looked awkward hanging there. Mr. Insull soon noticed his inability to sit still.

“This must be tedious,” he allowed, as if surprised at himself. “I will see to it that you have sufficient entertainment in future.” Jiyong guessed the question of a young person’s boredom hadn’t even crossed the man’s mind – probably a good many things hadn’t. He knew Mr. Insull had picked him up in that station on a whim and had likely chosen to keep him with as little forethought; would providing for him turn out to be a burden or an amusement? Jiyong sincerely hoped the latter. In the meantime the older man went into the office room, retrieved a book and began to read it aloud. He was fluent, and more expressive than when he normally spoke; he sure sounded better than Jiyong’s schoolteachers. Still, the content was kinda over Jiyong’s head – it was a biography of some lady scientist he probably oughta know about – and he didn’t dare parade his ignorance by admitting he didn’t understand half the words. So he sat and let the story wash over him. After a while he found the sound sorta pleasant, and managed to relax enough to tuck his feet up under him and snuggle into the sofa cushions. His eyes drifted closed.

When he opened them again Mr. Insull had stopped reading and was watching him over the book with that same pointed gaze. The next thing he knew the volume was closed and the older man had reached out to take him lightly by the chin.

“How charming you are,” said Mr. Insull in a low voice; he sounded almost mystified. The hold became a caress, strong fingers against Jiyong’s jaw.

Jiyong flinched away without meaning to, hadn’t even known a flinch was coming. Mr. Insull drew back smoothly, the gray of his eyes turning cold, and Jiyong braced himself to be struck: he knew enough from his dad that the logical conclusion to making a grown man angry was getting the back of his hand. It’d never been a hard blow, but that was his own _father_ – he had no idea what lengths this man might go to if crossed.

“Sorry,” he muttered quickly. “It’s just…I don’t…”

“What exactly do you think I’m paying you for?” inquired Mr. Insull after a pause. He seemed curious, if anything; it was so hard to tell. The words sank in through Jiyong’s nerves.

“…You’re gunna _pay_ me?” he said, sounding idiotic.

“Certainly.” Mr. Insull released his chin and calmly pushed him back to his original position. “I promised you a _job_ , did I not? Every man deserves to be paid fairly for his work.” He frowned. “Have you been laboring under the misapprehension that I’d ask these services of you for nothing?” Jiyong didn’t know what ‘misapprehension’ meant, but he thought he got the gist and was astonished.

“But…I mean…the house and all…” He gestured at the apartment and over at the dinner table. Mr. Insull exhaled tersely.

“Foolish boy. That is merely to ensure an appropriate level of comfort, both for myself and for you.” He shrugged. “Anything else I may choose to do for you, I do for my own pleasure. _This_ is something you do for _me_ , and so you will be paid.”

“…Oh!”

“I believe you set out to earn money for your family,” said the older man, getting to his feet. Jiyong felt his muscles relax, hadn’t realized he’d been holding himself so taut.

“ _Yeah_ ,” he replied with a nod and a lump in his throat.

“Are you not concerned they will be worried?” Mr. Insull glanced over at him from the office doorway. Jiyong nodded again, tearing up a little; but there was no helping it. “Does your parents’ home have a telephone?”

“No!” Jiyong almost laughed at the thought; they didn’t even have electricity – it was gas or nothing.

“Hmm.” Mr. Insull vanished into the office but returned a few moments later with a sheaf of paper and letter paraphernalia. He set a stiff baize-covered board on Jiyong’s knees and laid a sheet of thick, creamy paper on it. “Can you write?”

“…Kinda,” Jiyong hedged. He hadn’t been to school in two years but he thought he could maybe remember.

“Good. Then kindly write to your mother and reassure her you are well.” Mr. Insull produced a fountain pen and held it out. Jiyong took it with trembling fingers: it was smooth and shiny and heavy and –

“Is…is this real gold?!” he asked in a hushed voice, eyes wide.

“Yes.” Jiyong couldn’t tear his gaze away from the lovely object long enough to read his new employer’s face, but his voice was almost amused. “Don’t be afraid of it; if you break the nib I will replace it. Just show me what you can do.”

Jiyong tried, but any skill at his letters he might’ve still possessed went right down the drain at holding such a priceless object in his hand. It was much heavier than he was used to and he could barely stop looking at its shine long enough to form the words ‘Dear Mom…’

“Hmm,” said Mr. Insull again, once Jiyong had got this far. “I see. ‘Kinda’, indeed.” Jiyong blotched the ink, frustrated with his own dumb fingers; the man must really think him a klutz! “Allow me, this once,” offered Mr. Insull in a tone that let Jiyong make no objection. He removed pen and paper from his grasp and took a new sheet. Jiyong watched in admiration as the dark blue ink flowed in tiny neat letters across the paper, line after line: no pausing to suck the end of the pen or wrestle with a spelling, no ink blots or crossings-out. When Mr. Insull was done he shook the ink dry, then passed it to Jiyong, who did his level best to read it.

He’d gotten as far as ‘Mrs. Kwon’ and some kinda flowery greeting when his – patron, that was the word – evidently took pity on him.

“I’ve written to your mother introducing myself, stating that you asked me for work in the street and that I have taken you into training for a service position in my household: kitchen assistant, with the potential to rise if you progress well.” Jiyong sighed shakily, impressed with the lie; he’d been wondering what kinda fiction he could come up with to explain all _this_. Mr. Insull handed him a pencil and patiently allowed him to write a very short message of affection at the bottom of the letter. Then he folded it, tucked it into an envelope, and handed it to Jiyong.

“Thank you, Sir,” murmured Jiyong. He felt a little ashamed now that he’d repulsed the man’s attempt to touch him, almost as if this kindness with the letter was some sorta punishment. Mr. Insull didn’t _look_ angry, but Jiyong was beginning to learn that that really didn’t mean very much.

“And as a dutiful son you’ll send her your wages,” said Mr. Insull. Reaching into his pocket he extracted several large, crisp banknotes, bigger than any Jiyong had seen before, and placed them in his hand. “It should be sufficient for a little while.” The boy stared at them: they were hundred-dollar bills, three of them. No, he must’ve read them wrong, or the older man had made a mistake, or… “Tuck them inside the letter,” instructed Mr. Insull. “One must always take care when sending cash.” Jiyong showed him the bills, hand really shaking now.

“…These?” he said weakly. Did the man really think him worth all _this_?

“That is correct.” Jiyong nodded, somehow got the banknotes into the envelope, and laid it carefully by for his employer to seal. He didn’t know what was prompting him to move, gratitude or disbelief or sheer excitement at the touch of so much money; but he stood up, and before he could chicken out stepped quickly across to where Mr. Insull was sitting. The feelings of apprehension and nervous sickness were the same as before, only now they were mixed up and dampened by the magic of glowing gold and crisp dollars. When Mr. Insull drew him close, this time he closed his eyes and followed.

* * *

A week passed in a very similar manner. During that time Jiyong endured a fair whirlwind of feelings: homesickness and loneliness, excitement at the new luxuries that were poured into his lap, distaste for the things that were required of him at night – they continued mild and gentle but he still wasn’t reconciled to it – and enjoyment of that funny pleasurable sensation in his chest when he was praised. Mixed in with all that was some frustration, which was nothing new to him, and boredom, which was.

Mr. Insull’s idea of providing entertainment turned out to be books; children’s books, sure, but still beyond anything Jiyong had dreamed of tackling. He traced the letters on their spines as they sat neatly in a row on the low shelf that’d been allocated him in the office: Dickens, Alcott, other things he’d never heard of, including a brand-new looking volume called _Anne of Green Gables_. He couldn’t say any of them appealed. Jiyong hadn’t been the kind of person who classified reading as an enjoyment; his dad read regularly but he never looked particularly pleased with the pastime. And before Jiyong could make up his mind as to the pleasures of literature he had to learn his letters properly. That required schooling. He groaned to himself when he heard that – he’d left education at eleven with hardly a pang of regret, it’d been nothing but a chore to him and he couldn’t imagine it would be any different under Mr. Insull’s tutelage.

“The ‘k’ is silent,” Mr. Insull reminded him during one of their spelling lessons after dinner. Sometimes his patron seemed amazed at his ignorance, other times impatient with his progress: Jiyong got used to his quiet snap of correction real fast. Nevertheless, the older man must be getting some kinda kick out of it ‘cos on they went, every evening. He learned to write again, too, Mr. Insull sitting beside him and directing the pencil, and later the swoop of that incredible gold pen. Sometimes the moustache would twitch, pleased; occasionally he’d pat Jiyong on the head and the boy would feel that odd warmth in his stomach. He was actually improving quickly ‘cos he didn’t have to share his teacher with a roomful of other kids – and he had nothing else to do with his time but practice. But mostly the classes made him want to fall asleep.

“Wouldn’t it be easier to just…send me to school, Sir?” he asked after a scolding one evening. How could this be fun for either of them? “Or have a tutor come in?”

“Easier?” Mr. Insull gave him a look. “Yes, perhaps – but very much less satisfying. If I believed you would have any use for a fully-rounded course of learning I would certainly have you attend school,” the older man said with a touch to his cheek. “However, I hope I intend to look after you well enough that you need not burden your mind with Mathematics and Classics.”

“Thank you, Sir!” replied Jiyong earnestly, appalled at the idea of having _more_ subjects added to his studies and touched at his employer’s words. Mr. Insull tapped the exercise book briskly.

“Very well, then – come along.” Jiyong sighed, stuck the tip of his tongue out in concentration, and got back to work.

He _was_ learning apace, though, and not only his letters. If he really felt he couldn’t put up with any more verb conjugation and handwriting practice he found there were things he could do to divert his mentor’s attention: run his hands through his growing hair and unfasten the buttons at his collar distractedly; give a languid stretch to signal how bored he was, and with a quick inviting glance up at the older man that often worked; or, if all else failed, climb onto Mr. Insull’s knee – he was always close by – and recline against him, continuing his practice while curled in his lap like a kitten. That one almost always did the trick: Mr. Insull was human, even if only just, and for whatever reason he desired Jiyong. Jiyong was amazed as the days went on to discover that that fact gave him something like _power_. It was probably the most useful lesson he would ever learn.

* * *

That weekend Mr. Insull helped him write his first letter to his parents: ruling his paper and giving him spellings. Jiyong apologized to them for running out – not that it’d be enough for them to forgive him, not likely – and for not writing sooner. He wondered what they’d made of the money: it must’ve knocked them flat, though whether it would please or terrify them was an open question. He just hoped they’d be amazed enough by his writing skills to feel a little kindly towards him; he missed them fiercely, his mother and sisters especially. He longed for their comforting embrace, wanted to remember what it felt like to be touched in a way that was _safe_.

Not that he was scared anymore, not precisely; Mr. Insull seemed satisfied with very little – sometimes he would just sit there in his dressing gown and watch Jiyong. At such times the boy wondered exactly what the big deal was about sex; why adults seemed so obsessed with it, whether with its pleasures or its sin. It didn’t hurt him, it didn’t excite him; even the anxiety was waning as his keeper’s touch grew familiar. Most times it was just…like nothing.

Occasionally…well, an old man was still a man and a man was at base an animal, and Jiyong was discovering what that meant. He supposed everyone discovered it sooner or later, from one side or other. The one thing to be grateful for was Mr. Insull’s obvious love of control, demonstrated daily in his dealings with Jiyong – ‘cos it meant he could also control _himself_. That was what made him so tricky to read, but Jiyong had started to figure it out: you had to magnify every expression tenfold to get to the level of what Mr. Insull was actually feeling, but now he’d begun to get the hang of it he thought he might even be able to manage him. He could tell that in bed the man liked compliance, and Jiyong had no confidence to either complain or initiate anything himself even had he been inclined to. He let things happen, did as he was directed, and tried to think about something else; and evidently that was enough to satisfy his employer. All in all, considered Jiyong, there were harder jobs in the world.

“Have you finished?” inquired Mr. Insull, breaking him out of these thoughts.

“Yes, Sir.” Jiyong signed his name with care and put the letter in the addressed envelope. Mr. Insull took it from him, sealed it, and held out a stamp.

“Lick,” he ordered, and Jiyong obeyed, wrinkling his nose at the taste of the gum. The older man affixed it to the envelope and tucked it into his pocket. Jiyong noticed he was wearing his overcoat. “Well,” said Mr. Insull, “shall we go and post it?”

“…Outside?” It’d been a week since Jiyong had left the apartment; he didn’t even fetch food for himself, all he had to do was ring down and order whatever he liked and one of the snooty waiters would bring it him. The closest he’d got was leaning over the balcony and people-watching. The mere idea of setting foot in the Chicago streets was suddenly giddying.

“It’s a beautiful morning,” Mr. Insull pointed out, apparently with no thought that he oughta be spending it with his wife. “The sun is shining, and you have a new coat. You shan’t catch cold.”

“ _Thank you_ , Sir!” exclaimed Jiyong, beaming uncontrollably and springing up. His keeper crinkled his eyes at him, helped him on with his warm wool coat, and they walked out through the lobby into the daylight. As the air and open space hit him, it struck Jiyong that if he really wanted to he could run: there was no way in hell Mr. Insull would be able to catch him. He could go _home_. But for whatever reason he didn’t; he simply moved a little closer to his keeper and kept walking. As they wandered towards the lakeshore Mr. Insull told him they could have lunch out – anywhere he liked. His hand was warm in Jiyong’s back, and at that moment Jiyong thought himself a very fortunate young man indeed; and that this eccentric old one might be the best thing that’d ever happened to him.

* * *

It was a month before Jiyong had a chance to visit home. He figured that must seem like nothing to such an old man, but for him, homesick and uprooted as he was, it felt like eternity. He’d been scared to ask Mr. Insull about it – he was still scared to ask him for any favor and it’d taken a while to pluck up the courage. To his surprise, however, his patron agreed after only a moment’s thoughtful silence.

“You may go on Monday; I have board meetings all day.”

“ _Thank you_ , Sir!” exclaimed Jiyong, a-flutter with relief and delight. Mr. Insull looked pleased, as if there was much satisfaction to be had in granting him favors. Jiyong would later come to learn that his employer was a great philanthropist (after he’d looked up what that meant); and later still that the most pleasant thing about philanthropy was enjoying the gratitude it brought one. Right now he had no such cynical thoughts about Mr. Insull, only that he was kind and generous – and was to let him go _home_.

“I’m afraid I will be using the car,” Mr. Insull told him. “But take a cab, the doormen will call one for you; no wandering around!” Jiyong wondered if his keeper was being possessive or was simply concerned for his safety. It was the first time anyone had displayed either sentiment on his behalf, so he decided he didn’t mind and gladly accepted the bills Mr. Insull placed in his hand. “I’ll come and spend the night tomorrow,” the older man said. “You can tell me how it went.”

The cab driver declined to go any further off the main street, so Jiyong got out; who needed an escort anyway? A few blocks and here he was, Harrison Street and the small offshoot on the edge of old Chinatown that’d been his home since he was born. He turned the corner into it: dark as ever and hung with faded laundry, locals of all races hurrying by for their shifts if they were lucky enough to have work, or doing their best to stay busy if they weren’t. For the first time it hit Jiyong exactly how miserable this place was – sure, he’d always known it and had wanted better for his parents and sisters, but a month with Mr. Insull had really brought it home to him. It was _bad_ , he thought in dismay as he wandered the narrow road between the tenement buildings. Why had it never hit him just how much it smelled, or how depression seemed to be woven right into –

“Jiyong!!” came a delighted voice, one Jiyong knew perfectly; he whipped round, and there was Youngbae running full pelt towards him down the middle of the muddy street. Jiyong felt himself beaming idiotically as the miserable atmosphere seemed to vanish like magic; he braced hard for his friend’s impact, Youngbae had always been tougher than him and now he was working full-time in the Union Stock Yards his child’s body had grown up enviably strong. Youngbae caught him round the middle and dragged him into a hug, pounding him on the back with an enthusiasm that made Jiyong laugh out loud.

“Hey,” he said happily in Korean, as soon as Youngbae let up enough for him to take a breath. It felt so good to speak it again after all this time!

“You’re _back_!”

“For a bit, anyway.” Jiyong felt very fancy in his new clothes and wondered how he looked to his old friend; he could see passersby staring at them and knew it wouldn’t be long ‘til word got around that the Kwon boy was home all gussied up, and wouldn’t that be a mystery!

“You sly-boots!” grinned the other boy, now with a firm grip round his neck. “Why didn’t you tell me you were getting such a sweet job?!”

“I dunno.” Jiyong couldn’t look him in the eye and didn’t care for the feeling. He and Youngbae had been inseparable growing up, in the same street and at the same school for the short time they’d attended. Youngbae was honest as the day was long, but Jiyong had never felt this awkward with him before; sure, he might’ve lied a couple of times about his petty thievery to keep from getting a lecture but he’d rarely been afraid to meet his gaze. Now, though… What would this boy think of him if he knew? Youngbae was a perfect product of the poor Asian communities of Chicago: you had nothing to your name but your religion and your respectability, and with those you could hold your head high against the middle-class white Americans pushing in on you from every side. Jiyong was fairly shaky on the former virtue and knew he had lost the latter completely the day he went to Mr. Insull’s bed. If Youngbae knew…would they still be friends? “I guess it was a big surprise for me too!” he explained as Youngbae tugged him off the street to avoid a bicyclist with two enormous crates of wares strapped to each side.

“I thought you were gunna join the circus!”

“…Yeah,” said Jiyong with a slight pang as he looked back in hindsight on his own naivety. “But it didn’t work out.”

“Told you it was dumb,” Youngbae reminded him fondly.

“Anyway, I ran slap into this rich guy and thought screw it, why not ask him for a job? Musta been my lucky day.”

“That’s great.” They were approaching Jiyong’s house. Jiyong stopped, drawn towards it with a vast homesickness but also frightened to go on. “Really, I’m so glad,” said Youngbae, always earnest. “Your mom told mine it pays real well for servant’s work.”

“Uh-huh.”

“So…” Youngbae winked at him. “If this dandy’s hiring again make sure my name’s first on the list!”

“Promise,” lied Jiyong, unable to stop himself picturing the idea; he suppressed a shudder of horror and disgust at the thought – _he_ was able to cope with that life but Youngbae would rather die, and probably would outta shame alone. He gave his friend another long hug, familiar and platonic and therefore something precious. “I’ll have Dami tell you next time I get a day off, ‘kay?”

“You better!” Youngbae thumped him on the arm. “Gotta get to my shift. See ya, Jiyongie.” He turned and jogged away, leaving Jiyong trembling outside his own front door.

He knocked, there was no doorbell. It didn’t matter, the place was so small you could hear anything that was going on outside. Jiyong had never felt the poverty of this place so acutely as now; the luxury in which he was living made the contrast seem absolutely pitiful. But if Mr. Insull continued being so generous and Jiyong so obliging then perhaps there was something he could do about it. He knocked again; had he come too early? It was almost evening but maybe his mom was still at the factory, and his sisters could be out doing God knew what. Jiyong bit his lip. His father…

The door opened, and there _was_ his father. The man’s eyes widened and his pale face went paler; Jiyong took a harsh breath, joy and guilt and apprehension battering him in the space of a second.

“ _Jiyong_!!” The passion in that word made Jiyong flinch. He started back, wary at what might be coming; but to his astonishment his father dashed forward as best he could, unbalanced on his wooden leg, and flung both arms around him. “My boy…!” he exclaimed unsteadily, crushing Jiyong to him. Jiyong hugged him back, tears filling his eyes; he had hardly ever seen his dad this emotional. “Let me look at you,” the older man was saying, dragging him into the dark main room and hobbling to the window with Jiyong’s arm in his. “You’re well?” Jiyong nodded, overwhelmed with relief. “You can’t believe how _frightened_ we were,” his father said intently, “until we got that letter and… You stupid boy, how could you run off like that?! We even went to the police, but…”

“Sorry, Dad,” whispered Jiyong, basking in the parental affection he’d been missing for weeks – the most affection he’d received from his father since the accident. He helped his dad back to his chair, and was just settling down on the splintered stool beside him when the door sounded. The next thing he knew his mother was in the room and he was crying again at the sight of her. He heard her gasp, then felt a ringing blow to the back of the head as she darted across the bare floor and smacked him; he barely noticed it, he was so glad.

“You…” He knew she wanted to swear, but she wouldn’t. “…You little _devil_!” she cried instead, grasping him by the collar and dragging him up to shake him. He was always surprised at how much strength there was in her thin body but she felt even stronger today – he hoped that meant she’d been eating well; hoped they’d been getting the money. She squeezed him tight and he laid his head on her shoulder in bliss. His father made a contented sound behind him, and now only two things were needed to make this moment heaven.

“Mom, lay off!” he said as she resumed shaking him, then cupped his face as if to check it was really him. “Where’re the girls?”

“They’re taking extra lessons with Miss Pettifer,” she explained. “At this rate they’ll both be able to move up a class. And they’ll stop to buy fruit on the way home.” She sighed at the luxury. “Fruit!” she said happily, and squeezed Jiyong’s cheeks. “Thanks to you, baby…but you were so naughty, I thought I’d take a fit before that letter came, I didn’t know if you were alive or dead!!” She looked like she was about to whack him again so Jiyong smiled at her; he was ready with his lie.

“C’mon, Mom, sit down! Lemme tell you all about it.” It didn’t take long, or at least it wouldn’t have if his mom hadn’t stopped him every five seconds to ask him questions he didn’t have the answers to and had to invent on the fly; but he thought they’d bought the story. “Mr. Insull seems real nice,” he said brightly, as if he’d not had much contact with his lofty employer beyond their first interview; he was supposed to be a kitchen boy, after all. “I mean, I guess.”

“I asked the priest about him,” said his father quietly, having calmed down after his unusual outburst of tenderness. Jiyong pricked up his ears. “He’d heard of him; says _everyone_ knows of him.” The older man frowned. “He’s English – a Protestant, the puritanical kind.” He sounded as if he wasn’t sure whether he should deplore the former or be satisfied with the latter. Jiyong was amazed, and not only ‘cos he’d finally pinned down the accent: Mr. Insull, a _puritan_? He almost laughed, but it was another lesson. It taught Jiyong something he’d always suspected: that what grown men said and what they did weren’t necessarily the same thing – not even religious men.

“What else did Father Andrews say?” he asked curiously.

“He’s a great one for good works,” said his dad. “Spends hundreds of thousands on charitable concerns.” His eyebrows drew down further, as if charity was a fine thing in principle but something shameful when it was your family on the receiving end. Everyone round here had that mindset, Youngbae included – everyone except Jiyong. “Perhaps that’s why your wages are so stupidly high.”

“I s’pose,” replied Jiyong, blushing. “I did tell him I was desperate.”

“Hmm.” He gave his father a cautious glance, but it told him the man’s sudden tautness came from the pain in his leg rather than disapproval at his son’s job-hunting tactics. He wished there was something he could do for his dad; maybe once he had some more money he could ask a doctor about it. His mom interrupted this thought with another question about the Insull household, and Jiyong had to divert his brainpower back to his lies. He was only halfway through his labored explanation of his good fortune and his fictional duties when the door burst open again and his sisters ran in, their thin faces filled out and shining. They both fell upon him, and then his happiness truly was complete.

It was hard to leave them. Once the church bell sounded eight, though, Jiyong recalled that his mom and sisters would need their sleep for work and study the next day. Besides, he wanted to thank Mr. Insull and it wouldn’t do to miss his visit. He promised to come see them again on his next free day, promised to convey their best gratitude to his generous employer. Then the door closed behind him and he jogged a little sadly through the slum streets of his home ‘til he reached an area where cabs would stop; he hailed a couple and was dressed nicely enough that the second car picked him up, despite his youth and ‘foreign’ face. Stepping in, he headed back to his workplace exhausted but full of love.

* * *

Perhaps it was that overdue visit that really brought home to Jiyong how lonely his new life was likely to be. It saddened him but he didn’t know what he could do except resign himself to it. Mr. Insull obviously wanted to be around him, and came by as often as a married man could reasonably manage. Still, he was at work virtually every weekday and often went home for a ‘duty dinner’ with his wife before returning to the city; and it’d been made very clear to Jiyong that for his employer business came before everything – even sex. Certainly before his charge’s petty complaints. Jiyong didn’t know any of his neighbors; there was only one other apartment on his floor and he’d never seen anyone walk into it (even though he was sometimes so bored he’d sit with the front door cracked and watch the pristine hallway). So, other than his patron and the occasional trip home, he thought he could truthfully say he was isolated.

One morning he woke up unusually early. Mr. Insull had come by the previous evening but couldn’t stay over and it’d made Jiyong a little blue; not sad, exactly…antsy, more like. He got up and wrapped himself in his new velvet dressing gown, wondering how many times he could order food and drink up here without the condescending staff getting cross. Or maybe he could people-watch if the rain stopped. Jiyong opened the door to the sitting room and wandered through to use the telephone in the hall – and found he’d walked in on a girl about his age. He stopped halfway through his yawn and stared. It took her a moment to notice him, but when she did she jumped.

“Sorry!” she squeaked. The girl was wearing a maid’s uniform and was bent over with a dustpan and brush at the grate. For another half-second she looked truly scared, as if he was some grand aristocrat who would scold her for getting underfoot; then her expression changed and she straightened up on her knees. “Oh!” she said.

“Hi,” said Jiyong. He’d never seen anyone doing housework in here before but the place was always spotless. “Thanks for cleaning up after me,” he guessed.

“ _Oh_!” The maid looked even more surprised. In a more deferential tone, as if recalling her place, she mumbled: “They said downstairs you were a foreigner.” Jiyong couldn’t help grinning, ‘cos that accent was so like his own they might’ve grown up in the same street.

“South Side tenement, born and bred. I guess that counts as ‘foreign’ around here.” The girl now wore an astonished expression, her teeth white as peppermints in her dark-chocolate face. Jiyong thought she looked nice; she was something new, at least, and the first young person he’d been near since he went home. “Here, leave off that a minute,” he said, gesturing at the fireplace. “Come sit down.”

“I oughtn’t,” she told him quickly.

“Please, I wanna talk to you.” He could see she was wary – after all, here he was, to all appearances a rich brat who could get her in trouble with a word. But once he plonked himself down on the sofa and gave her another smile she doubtfully got up and crossed over to him.

“I can’t stay long,” she said. “If I get behind the housekeeper’ll tan my backside.”

“I’ll help you,” Jiyong promised. “But how come I’ve never seen you before?”

“You’re usually still asleep.” Jiyong blushed a little at what she must think of his lazy lifestyle – and even more at what she might think of _him_. Was it her who made the bed every day, and did she know who shared it with him? “I do the rest when you’re napping or bathing or in the office with your…whatever.” They both glanced aside, embarrassed.

“I’m not rich,” Jiyong blurted out idiotically. When he looked back she was smiling at him.

“I figured; you’re too careful with your things. The other guys in this building leave their clothes where they land; you’re the only one who puts his away.”

“I gotta take care of them. I never had things this nice before.” Anyway, Mr. Insull wouldn’t like it: he was fastidious, and Jiyong followed his example. “What’s your name?” he asked.

“Lizzie.”

“Jiyong.” He held out his hand and she shook it; she even laughed a bit. It was so nice to talk to someone young! To not have to watch every word he said for fear of inelegance or grammatical errors. “Are you here every day?”

“Monday through Thursday,” she said. He saw her covertly smoothing her fingers across the luxurious nap of the sofa cushions.

“Wake me up next time, huh? I mean, if I’m by myself.”

“We got rules, you know,” she informed him. “No dallying with residents!” Jiyong couldn’t help sniggering.

“I’m not like them, though!”

“Well, are you really gunna help me?”

“Sure!” Anything was better than boredom. She gave him a frank, appraising look that he rather liked – next to Mr. Insull’s it was positively glowing.

“Okay, you dust. I’ll lay the fire. And if you break anything you gotta _promise_ to take the blame!”

“Promise,” said Jiyong, and hoped he might just have made a new friend.

* * *

To his relief, over the next few weeks Jiyong’s daily life in the apartment grew more varied: Mr. Insull came around as often as he could and even started to take him out regularly, to the park or for dinner or to some exhibition or other – even once to the cinema for Jiyong’s first ever moving picture, ‘ _Male and Female_ ’ with a Miss Gloria Swanson. The older man obviously wasn’t much for the movies, but Jiyong was entranced. No matter where they went Mr. Insull never looked furtive or embarrassed to be seen with him, as if he didn’t give a fig what any person who noticed them might assume; the man projected self-assurance like armor. Jiyong couldn’t quite manage that himself, but he enjoyed the air and exercise. When Mr. Insull was absent – with his wife or his work, of which the latter was clearly his reigning passion – Lizzie would tap on the door and they’d clean together. Sometimes he sent her down for snacks and would treat her, and in return she gave him all the local gossip about the building.

As Jiyong had imagined, the apartments were tenanted exclusively by the rich and powerful, or at least the favored people they wanted to spoil. The apartment opposite his own was leased by a Mr. Rosenwald, who owned the vast Sears Company – but whoever lived in it sure wasn’t his spouse. Lizzie told Jiyong about scandals, jealous wives, wild parties, even the odd arrest. She seemed to think the wealthy were a bunch of degenerates. Jiyong supposed he couldn’t argue with that, not given his own status – whatever _that_ was, exactly. And, as he learned one Thursday morning while they were sat in front of the fire eating croissants, he wasn’t even the first bit on the side to inhabit this particular apartment.

“He had a woman living here before,” said Lizzie authoritatively. “For a bit.”

“What kinda woman?” inquired Jiyong, passing her the jam as a bribe. He still knew almost nothing about his employer, and if he wanted to stay on his good side he figured he oughta learn what made him tick.

“Oh, definitely a mistress,” the girl said, as if she’d seen a hundred such women come and go from the building. “Think she was a stage actress or a ballet dancer or something. _She_ sure never hung her clothes up!” She huffed. “She didn’t last long, though.”

“How come?” Lizzie took a big bite of pastry and shrugged.

“Dunno. Didn’t hear ‘em arguing or anything. Maybe he’s the type who gets bored.”

“Maybe,” said Jiyong quietly. If that was the case he’d have to learn how to deal with it: he wasn’t ready to give up the money yet, he was earning so much! And he could stand plenty more of this luxury. But if a fascinating full-grown woman couldn’t hold Mr. Insull’s interest what kinda hope did _he_ have? Understanding his keeper was still very difficult – and now Jiyong would have to try harder than ever.

* * *

He wasn’t the only one taking lessons, Jiyong came to suspect as time went on and the true Chicago winter drew in: Mr. Insull was obviously doing some studying too. He could tell by the expansion and development of the stuff they did together at night – and not only at night. He wondered who was teaching the man, and why he even felt it necessary to study so diligently. As Mr. Insull grew more knowledgeable he also grew in enthusiasm, insofar as he showed any emotion of the kind, and Jiyong found himself being pushed past the unspoken limits that had been set at the beginning of their relationship. With each new act it was as if they’d gone back in time to that first night, and Jiyong would be uncomfortable and frightened and weirdly flattered all over again. He’d feel embarrassed and bewildered ‘til he got used to it, and as soon as he was blasé about it Mr. Insull would move on to something else.

“Is there anything you dislike?” pressed the older man, as if he wanted to manage the thoughts in Jiyong’s head as well as the reactions of his body.

“No,” said Jiyong untruthfully, ‘cos Mr. Insull didn’t need to know _everything_. In fact there were many things in this new repertoire (he’d just learned the word) of sex that he’d prefer not to do; again, not much of it hurt – sometimes it even felt _good_ , when his keeper chose to make it so. But those were somehow the worst times of all; his leftover sense of shame, he supposed. Even when something _did_ hurt Jiyong knew the man wasn’t doing it on purpose, because he’d always stop at the sound of the boy’s sharp gasp, curl his lip in thought, then devise another way to get the desired result. Mr. Insull was a perfectionist and obviously a control freak, and he went on and on ‘til he got the reaction he wanted; then he remembered exactly how to extract it the next time. Those nights Jiyong couldn’t simply think of something else – and he gave up much more of himself than he’d like. In the end he gave up everything.

He felt better after that final invasion: like a different person, almost, one who could tolerate this behavior without lying awake guilty and ashamed. It made life easier and Mr. Insull sweeter; his keeper didn’t seem like the kinda man who enjoyed causing his lover humiliation, and Jiyong’s acceptance clearly pleased him. He was at the apartment more often than ever, teaching him everything an upper-class boy oughta know – and a few things he ought not. If Jiyong hadn’t been so homesick he might’ve found this period of his life almost pleasant.

* * *

Jiyong sorta enjoyed watching Mr. Insull work at his big desk; it was peaceful, and he was always awed by the speed at which the man read and wrote. This evening Jiyong was sitting on his knee with one elbow on the table, observing Mr. Insull’s handwriting in fascination.

“What language is that?” he asked, peering at the squiggles. He’d learned hangul from his dad before he could read English (not that he was ever gunna use it in the Midwest, but there was no arguing with his patriotic father); and it looked nothing like that.

“It’s shorthand,” Mr. Insull explained. “A kind of abbreviated English. It is what secretaries use when taking dictation.”

“Oh!” Jiyong considered the page; it looked kinda exciting, like a code in a mystery story. “It’s a secret language!” The moustache rose half an inch.

“In a way, I suppose,” allowed the older man, sounding amused. “I can teach you, if you would like.”

“No thank you, Sir!” said Jiyong hastily – the last thing he needed was more lessons. “It looks real hard.”

“Not especially; I taught myself when I was little more than your age.” He smiled at Jiyong’s wide-eyed expression. “And not many years after that I became Mr. Thomas Edison’s personal secretary.”

“Who’s that?” asked Jiyong blithely, thinking only that Mr. Insull couldn’t _still_ be just a secretary – could he? His teacher sighed. Jiyong was steeling himself for a lecture at this latest demonstration of his shocking ignorance when the telephone on the desk rang. Jiyong perked up: he had a powerful curiosity about this ‘phone. His keeper had told him he might use the one in the hall whenever he pleased, to speak to the kitchens or housekeeping – Jiyong had no-one else to call in any case. But Mr. Insull had warned him never to answer the telephone in the office: if it rang he should ignore it. Jiyong had obeyed on the few occasions it did, and it would soon fall silent; but he was tempted every time. Now Mr. Insull picked up the listening tube and spoke into the mouthpiece.

“Insull.” There was a pause; in it the older man shooed Jiyong off his knee, so the boy went to stand at the end of the desk. Mr. Insull gave him a half-smile, then said: “Yes, dear, I know. But there is a lot of work to be done, I can’t get away any earlier.” Another pause. “Around midnight, I suppose. Yes. Very well. Be sure to have a fire in your room, it’s cold. Good night, dear.” He replaced the telephone and resumed his shorthand.

“…Your wife?” surmised Jiyong with some surprise; if _he_ was a rich man keeping another woman he sure wouldn’t give his spouse the number of her apartment!

“Yes.” Mr. Insull beckoned him back. Jiyong came and leaned against his side. “The telephone line is connected to my office at Commonwealth Edison,” his patron explained, evidently reading his mind. “When Mrs. Insull ‘phones to check up on me after hours the call is automatically directed here.”[1] So _that_ was why he didn’t want Jiyong answering the thing. The lengths men went to in order to have affairs! Jiyong wondered why rich guys like Mr. Insull even bothered hiding it; with their fabulous wealth couldn’t they do as they pleased? He supposed Mrs. Insull must be a fiercely possessive woman; she probably had ways of making even this great man’s life a misery. “Come here.” Mr. Insull scooped him up with a sigh. “It appears we have less time than I thought tonight,” he said in resignation, and kissed him. Jiyong smiled and accepted it: no wonder Mr. Insull preferred him! he thought smugly as he undressed – all you had to do was be sweet and uncomplaining, and you would reap the generous rewards. Jiyong decided then that he was too smart to ever, ever be jealous.

* * *

Mr. Insull didn’t seem like the jealous type either – not that Jiyong ever met anyone of whom he might _be_ jealous, so it was hard to tell – but he sure could act possessive. It mostly manifested in his not wanting Jiyong to leave the apartment on his own; like many of the wealthy he seemed to view the backstreets of Chicago as a seething nest of criminals who’d steal away a cute boy in a heartbeat. Jiyong thought that was pretty rich of him, but at times it did feel sorta nice that he cared so much for his young charge’s safety. The only place he seemed content to let Jiyong go alone was back home – and then only rarely. Jiyong was on his third or fourth visit when Mr. Insull doubled down on his protective measures even further.

“You’re not to take a cab this time,” Mr. Insull instructed him, having given him permission to go. “I shall send you in the Packard.”

“Thanks?” said Jiyong as he knotted his keeper’s necktie for him (he figured he could qualify for a valet someday), trying to imagine the looks on people’s faces if he turned up in his home streets in that beautiful silver monster. Mr. Insull noted his expression.

“I was speaking with the Chief of Police.” Jiyong blinked at that: he still hadn’t twigged just how important his patron was; it’d be years before he learned the full extent of his influence. “There has been some trouble close to that area of the city,” Mr. Insull explained as the boy straightened his collar; and, at Jiyong’s anxious look: “Fights between Stock Yard workers and some young men of color.”

“What’s that mean?” Mr. Insull took a seat ‘til it was time for him to head out and do whatever the heck he did all day.

“African-Americans.”

“Oh,” said Jiyong, wondering what that had to do with him. There were fights all the time in Chicago, whether it was gangs or domestics or just ‘cos someone’s country invaded yours two hundred years ago and neither of you were over it. “How come?” Mr. Insull shrugged, but Jiyong was used enough to him now to recognize when he was gunna go into Lecture mode. He obligingly parked himself close to his teacher and looked attentive.

“There are certain men who resent giving good jobs to anyone who does not look like them – who do not wish to live anywhere near people unlike themselves.”

“Uh-huh,” said Jiyong knowingly. “White guys.” Mr. Insull gave him a look, either for his inelegant language or for being lumped in by his pupil with a group he seemed to disapprove of so heartily.

“Quite so. And there are many laws already in place to enforce their wishes. However, now some of these men are returning from the War they have found their old jobs filled by the very people they despise.” Jiyong knew all about that: it was after the time his dad had had his accident, but it was quite possible he’d have lost his job anyway to the wave of returning soldiers. At least that’s what his father said, and he’d been down on white Chicagoans ever since.

“They’re getting the jobs back, though, aren’t they?” he asked.

“Often. Our ladies at Commonwealth Edison have also found a fight on their hands with such men.” Mr. Insull’s eyes went chilly. “They even demanded that _I_ dismiss the ‘foreigners’ in my employ, of which I have taken on many.”

“Will you?” The moustache looked offended.

“Most certainly not. All that matters is business: the smooth running of my plants and other facilities. My managers take on workers based on their capability, not their color.” Jiyong added this to the growing heap of evidence of his keeper’s ambition – and disregard for social propriety. “These men were available when others were not; why would I force them to go now? It would be most unfair.”

“Yeah!” agreed Jiyong. He knew enough about life to know this was a praiseworthy (if sadly rare) attitude for a rich white American – well, English, but it was basically the same breed.

“Besides,” added his employer, “ _nobody_ tells Samuel Insull what to do.” Ah, thought Jiyong, _that_ made sense – and was more believable than any high-faluting moral reason. “The point is,” the older man concluded, “I do not wish you exposed to any danger; and unfortunately your face is most eye-catching.” He touched Jiyong’s cheek for a moment, gave him that admiring look that caused a pleasant tingle in the boy’s chest. “So in future Morley will drive you, and wait to bring you home. _I_ will take a cab.”

“Okay,” said Jiyong, now thinking less of his own safety than how this’d give him a chance to _show off_. He’d never had anything to brag about before. It’d be something, to arrive in the backstreets of the Loop in a luxury automobile and let everyone see how good he had it! He’d think up some excuse as to why he was allowed to use his employer’s car later; this was gunna be _fun_.

* * *

He _did_ have fun, although judging by the chauffeur’s face as he drew up in Harrison Street to the amazed stares of Jiyong’s neighbors it was a one-sided kinda enjoyment. Then, as if to continue giving Jiyong a high opinion of himself, the next night Mr. Insull took him to dinner at the fanciest hotel he had ever seen – after sending him to the barber and tailor. He looked up at the vast building on the corner of State and Monroe with his mouth open: _Palmer House_ , he read above the glittering entrance. The lobby… Oh, it was stunning, enough to bring a tear to Jiyong’s eye and at the same time give him the jitters: how could he eat here next to these ladies in silk and diamonds on the arms of men like his patron? What would they think of him? How could he live up to Mr. Insull’s expectations _here_? He was practically quivering as the older man led him through the vast space.

“Mr. Palmer built it for his wife as a wedding gift,”[2] Mr. Insull informed him as he sailed calmly into the heart of the hotel with Jiyong clutching nervously at his sleeve. “It has the greatest collection of Impressionist art in the States.” Jiyong didn’t know what that meant but he made an appropriately admiring noise and trotted on. “Look up,” said his keeper, pointing. “Those lamps are by Tiffany – remember the name.” Jiyong would, and in future years would amass quite a collection of his own. “We’ll eat in the Empire Room,” Mr. Insull told a flunky, and in a minute a guy who must be the restaurant manager came himself to greet them. As Jiyong was escorted into an exquisite pale green and gold room with many round tables and a curtained stage at one end he almost had a giddy spell trying to remember all his lessons about cutlery.

“Sir, people are looking!” he whispered anxiously as the manager stopped at a table in the very center of the room.

“What of it?” Mr. Insull nodded politely at someone he knew, then waited ‘til Jiyong had been seated before sitting down himself. “You must get used to people looking at you, Jiyong: I’m sure I am not the only one who finds your face eminently watchable.” The boy blushed, pleased but flustered, and turned his attention to the army of knives, forks and more mysterious implements in front of him.

Mr. Insull ordered as usual; Jiyong wasn’t picky, he knew the value of food too well for that, and most everything his patron chose for him was delicious anyway. When it came, in several separate courses (such small portions, you were disappointed at first but the plates just _kept coming_ ), he looked to Mr. Insull for guidance. But the older man gave him no assistance this time, merely sat and watched ‘til Jiyong had begun each course – only after his pupil had plumped for a combination of cutlery would he pick up his own, so Jiyong couldn’t copy him. Dammit, this was a test, wasn’t it! Jiyong fiddled with his collar, sweating slightly as he tried to remember their many lessons. Mr. Insull’s moustache started out solemn but gradually turned amused.

Halfway through the starter (who had to _warm up_ to the main meal?! In Jiyong’s family the starter was also the finisher and there wasn’t much of either), the stage curtains swooped back and a band began playing something complicated and serene.

“It is not a ‘band’,” Mr. Insull corrected him. “It’s a small orchestra.” He closed his eyes briefly as if to focus entirely on the music. “Wonderful; you may always rely on the musical accompaniment to be perfect here.” Jiyong nodded vaguely and went back to attempting to peel a shrimp without firing it across the table. While he was struggling an elderly gentleman strolled through the diners with a nod and a smile for each customer. He paused beside Mr. Insull.

“Evening, Sam.” Jiyong quickly set his cutlery down and stuck his hands in his lap, trying to sit up straight – he didn’t wanna embarrass his keeper. Mr. Insull’s gray eyes twinkled in a way that meant he was almost laughing; then he looked away.

“Good evening, Potter. Won’t you sit down?” The old man flicked a glance at Jiyong and his new haircut – not surprising, his was the only non-white face among the seated diners; he’d never have been allowed in here if not for Mr. Insull. But the man smiled.

“No, busy busy! You know how it is. Is everything to your satisfaction?”

“Of course,” said Mr. Insull comfortably. “The music is delightful, as usual.” Jiyong watched their interaction with covert interest; he’d rarely seen his employer socializing with his peers before, but you could tell these two knew each other well. If he had to make a guess he’d say this was Mr. Palmer himself. But they were so _formal_ : was this what all the wealthy were like with each other? He wasn’t sure he cared for it.

“Tell that to my granddaughter,” replied Palmer with an exaggerated sigh. “All she talks of is _jazz_.” He nodded at the smooth parquet floor in front of the stage where a few young couples were dancing. One pair was doing some pretty nifty moves that didn’t really suit the music; they got outta time and the young woman put her head back and laughed – a _free_ sound, thought Jiyong as the man joined her and swung her around breathlessly. He decided he liked the look of them, of their dance: perhaps there was life in the elite after all.

“Dreadful,” proclaimed Mr. Insull with what was practically a grimace, which on his face meant a slight frown, and suddenly Jiyong had a hankering to hear some of this new syncopated style. Any music at all would be super, it wasn’t something they’d ever had in his family’s house; his only experience of it was out in the streets on festival days or if he was passing a bar. He wondered if Mr. Insull would maybe buy him a Victrola.

“Isn’t it? She wants us to hire some of those people for the after-dinner cocktail hour; bring in the young folk, she says.”

“Well, the young may do as they please.” Mr. Insull eyed Jiyong as if to say _some_ of them, anyway. Jiyong sat and looked meek. Palmer shrugged in agreement, said his goodbyes, and wandered on. “Next time I shall introduce you,” Mr. Insull told Jiyong.

“You don’t have to do that, Sir!” said Jiyong, amazed and more than a little spooked; he’d only just got used to speaking with one toff! If his keeper was gunna start expecting him to deal with a whole world full of the upper class…he wasn’t sure he was ready, that was all.

“Nevertheless,” said Mr. Insull, and went on with his dinner.

It went smoothly up ‘til dessert, when it all crashed down around Jiyong’s ears. They were eating, listening to the music, conversing quietly, and ignoring the interested stares being aimed at their table. Mr. Insull looked contented, and that was probably what made Jiyong complacent: he was doing so well at managing all the cutlery and minding his table manners that he must’ve gotten a little _too_ comfortable eating in front of his patron, and in his enthusiasm for the chocolate tart he reverted back to his natural speaking style. It was only after the word came out that he realized he’d said it; he wasn’t even cursing, just said something offhand like: “This tastes fucking _amazing_ ”. Mr. Insull’s eyebrows shot up higher than Jiyong had ever seen them, and he understood he’d made a _big_ mistake.

His keeper didn’t say a word about it, not then; Jiyong suspected he’d dislike making a scene almost as much as he disapproved of what’d just come outta his charge’s mouth. But the pleasant dinner turned chilly as if the table had been surrounded by ice blocks. Mr. Insull’s gaze didn’t leave Jiyong’s face the entire rest of the meal, dessert and cheese and fruit, but there was nothing complimentary in it now; if Jiyong’s tummy was fluttering it was in panic. _This_ would be the time, he was sure: the day this man showed his true colors.

“Get in,” instructed Mr. Insull when the Packard pulled up to the Palmer House after the meal, which Jiyong hadn’t been able to finish. He obeyed hurriedly. Morley closed the door on them and pulled away from the curb.

“…I’m real sorry, Sir,” said Jiyong, almost too quiet to hear; he knew his keeper was about to put him in his place and he was scared stiff at the form it was gunna take. Mr. Insull just nodded, his gray eyes piercing in the dark.

“Come here.” Jiyong flinched as his employer reached for him but Mr. Insull didn’t react, just grasped him by the scruff of the neck and put him over his knee, face pressed against the butter-soft leather of the seat cushions. Jiyong felt his jacket being pulled up and his suspenders unfastened, then his pants and underwear tugged briskly off his ass. And then, right in front of the silent chauffeur, he got a spanking.

He was scared at first, then humiliated and astonished in quick succession. But by the time ten seconds had passed it was all Jiyong could do to keep from laughing: was this meant to be a punishment?! Oh, rich kids must have it _easy_! he thought as Mr. Insull’s hand met the skin of his backside sharply; ‘cos this was _nothing_. Jeez, his own mother would dish it out three times harder than this just for giving sass to a shopkeeper! Sure, it was sorta embarrassing because Morley was a heel who always looked at Jiyong sideways like he’d just crawled up from the gutter. But other than that it was no kinda hardship. He wasn’t about to tell Mr. Insull that, of course, so he squirmed obligingly and let out the appropriate pained yips; inside, though, he was giggling. For a minute he almost felt sorry for his keeper – as far as Jiyong was concerned it was the first bit of humanity he’d shown outside the bedroom.

“…Watch your tongue in future, please,” said Mr. Insull once he was done readjusting Jiyong’s clothing for him. Jiyong nodded repentantly; the back of the older man’s hand brushed his cheek, perhaps to comfort him, so he leaned into the touch. The moustache looked pleased all the way home.

* * *

“Sir,” said Jiyong softly the next Sunday morning, reaching for Mr. Insull’s pajama sleeve across the bed, “can I visit my mom today?” It was the first favor he’d asked since his patron had punished him (or so Mr. Insull thought) with that spanking. Jiyong was tickled pink all week, and in reward for the older man acting so cute he’d been good as gold and sweet as pie, as if he’d really been taught a lesson and was showing his keeper the proper respect. It’d worked a treat, as he found out when Mr. Insull said:

“Yes, if you like; Mrs. Insull and I have church and then lunch with my son in any case. But you’ll take the car as usual.” Jiyong snuggled up to him, inhaling the pine scent of the Christmas tree in the next room – he’d been allowed to decorate it himself – and watched the moustache lift minutely. His keeper was happy with him, the sun was shining, and he oughta have a good few hours with his family. It was gunna be a lovely day.

He stepped out in Harrison Street opposite the narrow road that contained his parents’ house. It was almost midday and the various places of worship were getting out; there were locals everywhere in their Sunday best (which wasn’t saying much, not around here). It’d be Christmas Day soon but you couldn’t see much evidence of it, no-one had the money for frivolities. He was sure his family would be back from the service by now even at the pace his dad walked, and he’d brought some small presents like fancy tea for his mom and candy for the girls. Morley shut the door behind him and settled down with his nose in his scarf to wait, so Jiyong skirted an icy puddle and eagerly approached his house.

He hadn’t gone many paces when he started to feel odd. Why? He glanced around: people were looking at him – no, they were downright _staring_ ; some of them even stopped in their tracks before hurrying on. Was it ‘cos of the Packard? he wondered; of course the car stood out in this neighborhood like a racehorse among sheep, as did the uniformed chauffeur, who as before was leaning against the hood smoking and looking disgusted. Last time it’d been a dandy thing for Jiyong, to show off his good job and generous employer; he hadn’t minded people’s stares one bit. All the same, today it made him feel peculiar.

The door was open; not that unusual in the daytime, it wasn’t like people round here had anything to steal. But it worried Jiyong. They oughta be more careful: the money he was sending to keep them all healthy might be the very thing to put his family in danger! So when he knocked and stepped in he was careful to close the door behind him. His dad was sitting in his usual chair, bad leg stretched out in front of him; there was nobody else there, which explained the weird silence. He wasn’t wearing his suit and he _always_ put that on for church. At a glance Jiyong could tell he was in one of his dark moods, the leg must be giving him some pain – he had to see about that doctor!

“Where’s Mom?” he asked in Korean, stepping toward his parent in concern. Maybe she’d gone for liquor, that sometimes helped. “At the neighbors’?” His father started as he noticed him, as if he’d been deep in a daydream.

“Stop.” Jiyong frowned.

“What is it? Does it hurt?” A wince passed across the older man’s face.

“I…got some news yesterday,” he said in a low, strange voice, and Jiyong’s heart began to race: had something happened to his mother? To his sisters?! He made to rush forward again but his dad put out a hand to repel him. “Tell me,” his father intoned, “and _don’t_ lie to me, if you want to keep your teeth in your head.” Jiyong knitted his eyebrows in confusion. “What is your job?”

“…I’m a servant.” His parent’s expression darkened.

“And how _exactly_ do you serve this Englishman, this…Insull?” As he heard those words Jiyong turned cold, because it sounded almost as if he was insinuating…

“I work in his kitchens,” he replied, attempting to steady his voice into something unsuspecting. His dad leaned forward. “It’s-”

“You work on your _back_!” his father yelled across him, the sudden volume making him jump.

“ _Dad_!” he protested.

“Tell me one more damn lie…” The taller man dragged a hand down his face and Jiyong went silent, his skin prickling and legs weak with horror. How the hell could he know?! He’d been so _careful_ … “Everyone knows,” said his father in a hoarse voice. “The whole neighborhood, it was those Poles upstairs that told _us_!!” Jiyong saw him physically shudder. “…I reckon they enjoyed it,” he added through gritted teeth.

“It’s just a _rumor_ ,” Jiyong told him, trying to placate him. “You know this street’s full of ‘em! Just ‘cos I found a good job…” Silently he begged the man to believe him – he _oughta_ believe him over their nosy goddamn neighbors!

“It is not. It explains everything: the salary, the fine clothes, that monster automobile – what kind of worker enjoys such perks but a _mistress_?”

“I…” Jiyong felt as if he couldn’t get enough air, and dragged in a breath. He had never seen his dad so outraged, it terrified him, and he couldn’t come up with a decent story. “…If you won’t believe me, I…I dunno what to tell you.”

“…A child of mine,” said his father faintly, as if the boy hadn’t spoken. “Spreading his legs for money! At the very moment we needed you to grow up and be a man around this house, you run away and… I can’t…oh, _God_ , Jiyong!”

“I-” Jiyong began in desperation, but his parent cut him off.

“My only son…” The older man had tears in his eyes, something Jiyong had never seen, not even when he’d lost the leg. “A whore for men!” Jiyong froze, shocked into stillness: he’d never heard that word tied to himself before, Mr. Insull would never use such a crude and hurtful term. It caused him more pain than anything his keeper had done with him.

“Dad…” he tried again, but couldn’t think of anything to say. What possible reason could he give to excuse such ungodly acts? That was how his father was thinking of it, he knew it. “…It wasn’t my idea,” he said lamely.

“And yet you did it – and you walked into this God-fearing house _knowing_ it!!” To his horror his dad was struggling to his feet, the ill-fitting leg clearly chafing him the way it always did. Jiyong had wanted to get that fixed, to bring the man a measure of comfort; he’d thought his next payment might do it. But instead of helping him he’d devastated him. His father took a step forward.

“Take care…!” begged Jiyong, terrified he might fall and that the pain and humiliation of it would make him even worse.

“ _Come here_!” Jiyong knew what that meant – ever since he’d lost the leg his parent’s subdued temper had plummeted and his punishments for Jiyong’s misdemeanors had grown harsher. He was too slow after the accident to catch his son, of course, but it didn’t seem to matter: Jiyong was frightened enough to come when he was called and take whatever blow was deemed appropriate. Instinctively he stepped forward to meet his father’s raised hand – and stopped. He had lived for months now without the touch of real anger, Mr. Insull’s spankings were no kinda chastisement at all; and he didn’t want to feel it again. What was more, he didn’t _have_ to. “Jiyong!” barked the older man.

“ _No_ ,” whispered Jiyong, and took a decisive step backwards. His father leaned on his cane heavily, hand shaking, and looked at him in disbelief.

“This is what he taught you?” he demanded. “This man who calls himself a Christian! Devils, _both_ of you.”

“No, Dad, I-”

“Out.” Jiyong’s father pointed at the door, his pale face now a dangerous puce color. Jiyong caught his breath. “Get out! Don’t you ever come back here; don’t write, don’t send any of your filthy money. I won’t have your sisters corrupted!” His voice broke on the final word, and that awful crack had Jiyong crying too. He couldn’t mean it, he couldn’t! His dad lurched forward and Jiyong backed away, his vision blurry with tears. In the midst of his sobs he heard the door open, heard his mother’s voice crying out.

“Jaeyeon!” she gasped, placing her thin frame between them. Jiyong’s father stopped, chest heaving. The quaking boy crept under her arm, knowing she couldn’t protect him from the heartbreak that was coming but hoping nonetheless. “ _Please_ ,” she said, and with that word Jiyong knew that she knew: what had happened, what he’d done. “Don’t do this, Jaeyeon. It’s not his fault, I know it! He’s a child!”

“He’s old enough to know right from wrong, woman!”

“He’s your _son_ ,” hissed his mother. She held Jiyong tight and he hid his face in her neck.

“Not anymore. He goes.” His father clenched his fist, his disgust and the pain from his leg stark in his voice. “And if you don’t like it you can go with him!”

“ _Please_ , Momma,” managed Jiyong, in his distress reverting to the vocabulary of his childhood. “Don’t…don’t make me!” He didn’t think he could bear to lose them like this.

“Jiyong…darling,” she murmured in her soft voice, stroking his hair. “I think you’d better for now, baby…” She sniffed; he understood then that although she still loved him his actions had broken something in _her_ , too. But: “Write to me,” she whispered in his ear. “At the factory.” Jiyong nodded, choking back a pathetic urge to beg. She was right to make him go: young as he was he knew he’d never recover if he was the one responsible for the breakup of his family. He’d send the letters to her work, _and_ the money; he’d be damned if his mother and sisters had to suffer for his father’s notions of sin! He’d see them gone from this horrible place before the year was out – all four of them.

“ _Go_ ,” snarled his father, his face wet. Without any more pleading Jiyong went. He shut the door behind him with a bang, sat down on the stoop, and wept.

* * *

The wordless chauffeur drove him back to the lakeside apartment – he supposed he had to call it _home_ now. The man gave him an odd look as he opened the Packard’s door; had he guessed what’d happened in those narrow rooms, in that dirty little street he so obviously looked down on? For all Jiyong knew Morley was the one who’d been blabbing his business all over the neighborhood – he’d seen him talking to a local woman selling cigarettes last time, the bastard might’ve said _anything_. Whoever it was, they’d done their job perfectly: he felt like his life was over.

Mr. Insull came by again that evening, eager to see him after a long staid day with his own family – Christ, the man didn’t know how lucky he had it! For the first time ever Jiyong felt a welling of relief and gratitude at the sight of him, thankful beyond anything that he hadn’t gone back to his estate and the company of his wife tonight. Before the old man had even removed his coat Jiyong ran at him, wrapped both arms round his waist, and sank against him. And for the first time he saw Mr. Insull truly surprised.

“What happened?” his keeper demanded once his eyebrows had settled back in place, his voice cool and steady as usual. The very lack of emotion soothed Jiyong’s shredded soul. So he told him. “Ah,” said Mr. Insull solemnly, not sounding in the least bit perturbed that the gossip of an entire Chicago neighborhood said he was fucking a street brat. “Well, that is most unfortunate; but you needn’t make yourself unhappier than you have to be.” How could he say that?! Did he not have a family he loved? Jiyong wanted to break down again. Then he caught his patron’s eye and intuitively realized how little Mr. Insull would like to be on the receiving end of any extreme of emotion. “Is your father a religious man?” asked his companion.

“Yeah…” Was that so important? Mr. Insull was big on church too, never missed a Sunday service, but you didn’t see _him_ condemning Jiyong for what they did together. In his misery Jiyong vowed that he’d never feel guilty at what any so-called Christian might think of him again: if that was what had driven his father to such cruelty then God didn’t deserve his loyalty!

“Hmph.” To Jiyong’s surprise the older man’s hand rose to cup the back of his head and stroke his hair. “Give him time to calm down,” Mr. Insull advised. “In the meantime you may trust that I’ll care for you.” Jiyong shut his eyes and held on tighter, and to his further astonishment his keeper’s arms closed around him, pulling his cheek against Mr. Insull’s silky vest. If Jiyong tried very hard he could pretend it was his father; at least ‘til Mr. Insull kissed him.

“Sir…” breathed Jiyong. For once he almost hoped his patron would continue; he wanted to forget everything about this day. But nothing further happened: Mr. Insull made him go to bed, even told him to put on pajamas. When he joined Jiyong hours later he simply touched his cheek and calmly went to sleep. Jiyong supposed he appreciated the man’s delicacy (although it was equally possible Mr. Insull just wasn’t attracted to puffy-eyed miserable boys). Even so, he found himself shuffling over to lie against his solid back, and was somehow comforted. Eventually he fell asleep. In that sleep the first glimmerings of affection for this chilly, dependable man were born – along with an idea of where he might in future lay his loyalty.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> 1Insull did reportedly use this trick to hide exactly what he was doing from his very jealous wife – more on that later![return to text]  
> 
> 
> 2Potter Palmer did indeed build the spectacular Palmer House as a wedding gift (nice!). Later, apparently H.H. Holmes (again XD) used to tell the romantic story of the Palmers, among others, to woo unsuspecting young ladies by mail before murdering them…[return to text]  
> 
> 
> Well, here we are in Chicago again! This time in the 1910s, so the chapter titles are taken from vaudeville/music hall songs.  
>  If you're finding it interesting/depressing/whatever please drop me a line! More to come next week :)


	2. I May Be Gone For A Long, Long Time

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> In which Jiyong has a little teenage fun - but soon learns the consequences of acting his age.

Mr. Insull spoiled him all the next week, telling him he would take him anywhere he liked, and that he could visit any member of his family who might be open to such a meeting after what had happened. But instead Jiyong stayed curled up in bed or on the sofa, staring blankly at the festive decorations – he didn’t think he could ever love this season again – and trying desperately not to think about his father. He knew he wasn’t handling it well, and yet he had no idea how he was supposed to move past this catastrophe. In all his short life he had never known such grief.

Jiyong wanted to cry, all the time, whenever he thought of his parents’ faces. He wanted to be comforted the way Mr. Insull had comforted him that terrible afternoon. He quickly learned, though, that his keeper – now the only person he might call his guardian – was not very receptive to anything he considered ‘wallowing’: he’d listen to Jiyong and be gentle with him in times of real crisis, but afterward…almost certainly not. So the only person Jiyong could open up to about his family and the pain of it all was Lizzie. She wasn’t an especially sympathetic person either, and was very busy, but she’d sit there and pat his back for a bit while he cried things out. It was all he could expect. He didn’t dare even try to contact Youngbae – not now everyone knew.

He wrote his mom at the factory care of her supervisor, though he couldn’t be sure she was even getting the letters: he’d put the address of the apartment building but she never wrote back. At first his letters were clumsy outpourings of remorse and misery, begging her to talk to his father, entreating them to forgive him. After a while of nothing, though, he took a leaf outta Mr. Insull’s book: cool and undemonstrative, stating merely that he missed her and hoped she would see him. And, like Mr. Insull, he made sure there was always money between the pages. At long last it worked: a letter on cheap paper was delivered by a bellhop. When Jiyong opened it, fingers trembling, he saw it was smudged – perhaps with tears. That made him feel hideous, but when he read the stiff hangul and saw she wanted to meet him he thought he might break down with gratitude.

“You’ll take the car,” said Mr. Insull when Jiyong translated for him, as if that ostentatious automobile hadn’t been the cause of this disaster in the first place. “I won’t risk having you dragged off somewhere by vengeful relatives.”

“But-”

“No.” So Jiyong traveled to the tea room in style, quaking in the backseat all the way.

She was already there, still wearing the warm wool coat he’d suggested she buy with his wages. It was some hope, Jiyong supposed as he wove eagerly towards her: she knew now where the money had come from, and she hadn’t thrown the damn thing away like her husband had no doubt done with his. Then again, she’d always been the more practical one.

“I’m sorry,” was all he could say after taking his seat. What else was there? She looked at him for a long time, paler and wearier than he’d ever seen her, even when she’d had to pull double shifts this past year before Jiyong left home. Then she leaned around the small table and kissed him; he had never felt a salute more precious.

“You’re here, that’s all,” his mom murmured in Korean. Her face darkened. “I didn’t think he’d let you come – not now we all know his secret.” Jiyong could have told her it probably wouldn’t even cross Mr. Insull’s mind to forbid the meeting; he seemed to have so little shame about the whole thing, as if he could make people believe anything he liked. It was one of the first clues Jiyong had as to how powerful his new guardian truly was.

“He knows how bad I wanted to see you,” he told her instead. There was another fraught pause; during that silence a waitress brought tea and quickly skedaddled away from the thunderclouds of emotion hovering above the table.

“…I’d like to kill him,” said his mother. In that moment she looked not unlike a momma alley-cat, like she’d scratch the eyes outta anyone who tried getting near her babies. “For how he lied to us and…and what he’s done to _you_.” She grabbed the tongs to add sugar to her tea, wielding them in a way that showed pretty clearly how she’d like to deal with her son’s patron if she ever got him alone in a room.

“No you wouldn’t,” replied Jiyong with a tremulous smile: she still loved him, wanted to protect him! After his father’s reaction it was a miracle.

“He tricked you!”

“Not really.” He was tired, and to be honest wasn’t absolutely sure what the truth of that first night had been; maybe he _had_ been tricked in some roundabout way, but for the life of him he couldn’t think how. “I knew what he was asking. More or less.”

“…If only you could come home,” his mother added, ignoring that. She spoke as if she knew it was impossible and blamed herself. “I’d have you back in an _instant_ , baby, only…” Jiyong shook his head.

“Even if I could, I wouldn’t.” Her eyes widened and he hurried on. “‘Cos he’s gunna pay for everything: a better house for you and Dad-” She opened her mouth. “A better life for the girls!” That closed it again; it was what he and his mom had always fought for, though without much hope – a way to make his sisters’ lives different from what hers had been.

“He’s taken _everything_ from you.” Jiyong tried to push through the fog of hurt his dad’s fury had caused, and really thought about Mr. Insull and the liaison they shared.

“Not everything,” he said carefully. “And besides…there’s no undoing it.” He pursed his lips and rubbed his hands over his face. “Anyway, don’t you think Dad’s taken something from me too?” There was a horrible silence.

“You broke his heart,” his mother told him sadly at the end of it. “You understand how hard it was for him to accept your money instead of being able to provide for us himself? Even before…before this. He’ll need some time…”

“How much time?” asked Jiyong, sniffing. She just shook her head. “Do… What about the girls?” he went on. Soomin was surely too young to understand what he’d done even if she’d been told – but Dami might have an inkling. Would she hate him too?

“We’ve kept it from them.” His mom twisted the napkin in her fingers. “I don’t know what the neighbors might’ve said, but I don’t think they know; they keep asking when they’ll see you again.” Jiyong couldn’t hold back a sob at that: he was already crushed at the thought he might not be with his sisters again for God knew how long…but it’d be ten times worse if they felt anything close to the misery he was experiencing. His mother put her head in her hands at the sound; she looked so terribly tired. “Oh, Jiyong…my baby…why didn’t you _tell_ me he was using you? I’d have brought you home in a second, money or no money! I’d have gone to the police again!” Jiyong recalled his keeper’s casual mention of the head of the Chicago P.D., and wondered if they’d even have listened to her if she had. He wiped his nose with the back of his hand – there was no Mr. Insull around right now to glare at him.

“I don’t hate it, Mom,” he admitted quietly. The look she gave him told him she didn’t know whether to be pained that he was lying to her or shocked that he might be telling the truth. “He’s not cruel to me; and the money makes it worth it.”

“I _can’t_ believe that.”

“In any case,” said Jiyong with a helpless shrug, “what choice do I have now?” She didn’t answer, ‘cos there was no answer to be had. Instead she held out her callused hand and he gripped it tight, looking for any comfort she had to offer. They sat without speaking ‘til she had to go home.

* * *

His mom couldn’t get away very often; she had to hide the fact from his father, which made it almost impossible given her long hours and the way they all lived on top of each other. So Jiyong had to rely even more exclusively on his patron’s company, and when he wasn’t lamenting the loss of his family that was giving him a lot to dwell on. Jiyong had always thought of his relationship with Mr. Insull as a job; a highly peculiar job, but nothing more. At least, he _thought_ that was what he thought. Now, after that terrible scene at home and his separation from everyone he loved – which was to be permanent, his father had sworn it – he discovered himself harboring some more confusing feelings for his employer…guardian…whatever. He didn’t know why Mr. Insull made him feel better, this man whose general reaction to Jiyong’s tears was disapproving astonishment; but he did.

Since the estrangement (and the world’s worst New Year) he was having some _messed-up_ dreams; enough to give him trouble sleeping. They were mostly about his father, only in the dreams he was _twisted_ – as were the emotions he sparked in Jiyong. He didn’t like to dwell on them: he’d even prefer to think about what went on in the bed when he was awake to what was happening to him when he was asleep. His eyes would shoot open in the dark and he’d lie there crying silently. On the nights Mr. Insull stayed over he could shift towards him and be comforted without the older man even knowing; his keeper didn’t sleep much but once he went off he was like a log. When he was alone it was bad: he often couldn’t shut his eyes again ‘til daylight came.

Perhaps this was why Jiyong was unreasonably cheered when the bedroom door opened one bright Saturday morning in January and Mr. Insull walked in. He sat up in bed and stretched, smoothing down his tousled hair and trying to make himself presentable; his keeper didn’t usually come around ‘til afternoon on the weekends, if he could get away from home at all. Maybe Mrs. Insull had gone on a trip or something.

“Still in bed at your age?” chided Mr. Insull, coming to pat his head and give him a kiss.

“You’ve no idea how much I love sleeping,” Jiyong told him blearily; last night hadn’t been good. The older man shook his head and went off to order breakfast, leaving Jiyong to don his miniature dressing gown by himself.

Between them they wolfed down several rounds of kedgeree and _pain au chocolat_ ; Mr. Insull took coffee but wouldn’t let Jiyong have any, saying he didn’t need stimulants at his age. Jiyong sighed, and waited to be told what his patron wanted to do today.

“Is something the matter?” inquired Mr. Insull over his morning paper. Jiyong blinked and shook his head.

“No, Sir.”

“You seem rather pensive.” Jiyong gave him a wan smile; once upon a time he’d have been surprised he’d noticed his moods at all, but the months had taught him how sharp-eyed the man could be.

“It’s my birthday, that’s all.” One eyebrow rose. Mr. Insull folded the newspaper and set it aside, linking his hands in his lap.

“Why did you not mention it before?”

“It’s just a day,” said Jiyong, and for the last couple of years it _had_ been: his family was too harassed to worry about anniversaries and there was no money for gifts or treats in any case. He’d get a hug from his mom and sisters and that was about it; he wished now that he hadn’t taken those cuddles so much for granted – it’d be the very best birthday if he could be with his family now.

“That’s quite a mature attitude for someone so…” Mr. Insull paused. “How old are you today?”

“Fourteen,” Jiyong told him, somewhat proudly. Certainly this was when men of the underclass were expected to be out earning a living wage, and Jiyong had achieved that while he was still thirteen! The older man’s moustache wiggled in what might be a chuckle; Jiyong supposed that to someone of Mr. Insull’s vintage anything under thirty must seem like nothing at all.

“Hmm,” said Mr. Insull. “Congratulations.” He chucked Jiyong under the chin and stood up, heading in the direction of his office. “Go and have a nice bath and wrap up warm; perhaps we’ll go for a walk.”

“Okay.” Jiyong padded obediently away. Of course, he hadn’t expected Mr. Insull to react any other way to the fact of a birthday – he looked like the kinda guy who’d only go to a party under protest. Besides, thought Jiyong as he poured enough bubbles into the huge tub to create the Himalayas in foam, living in this place was like a birthday every day. Still, as he lay back in the hot water he couldn’t help but feel a little lonely.

In the park Mr. Insull took his arm. For some reason it didn’t feel quite so controlling today – as if Jiyong was a dog on a leash – but instead sorta affectionate, like Mr. Insull was his father or uncle or indeed his legal guardian. It was freezing but the sun was out and he was wearing the soft suede gloves his patron had bought him the other week, and with his new thicker overcoat Jiyong knew he looked like a rich kid – other than his face, of course. He was enjoying the day with a mild, pleasant kinda enjoyment, wondering if Mr. Insull would let him choose where to go for lunch, when his keeper began asking him about his birthdays back home.

“Not much,” was Jiyong’s response to his query about what they usually did. He wasn’t sure he wanted to talk about it; not that he didn’t like discussing his family as a rule, but he didn’t want Mr. Insull to think less of them for not celebrating – as if his parents were neglectful.

“What would you do if you could choose?”

“Eat,” said Jiyong promptly; he could still remember with painful vividness the times during those last months at home when he’d actually been close to starving. “Eat all day!”

“Very well,” replied Mr. Insull, and led him into another sunny path; there were smartly-dressed people walking there and all of ‘em were gawking at the pair of them, but neither Jiyong nor his guardian batted an eyelid. “Then let us do that.”

Thirty minutes later they arrived at a patisserie in the wealthy Gold Coast district by the Lake, not too far from the apartment. Jiyong was very keen to begin: it felt like ages since breakfast. Mr. Insull let him peer at the gorgeous window display for a while, breath fogging the cold glass. It was like art to Jiyong – he knew what that was now, he’d been taken to several galleries by his patron for his schooling – and, even better, it was art you could eat. When they went inside he saw it was small and pretty but less outrageously lovely than the hotel restaurants where Mr. Insull usually dined. There were a couple of tables with ladies drinking chocolate and eating eclairs and financiers, but it looked full.

“Should we go someplace else?” he asked in a low voice; it was too bad, the place smelled incredible but he didn’t think Mr. Insull would wanna wait. The older man just hushed him with a touch to the arm and beckoned over one of the young aproned men behind the counter. He spoke to the guy in what Jiyong guessed was French: a question, it sounded like, then an instruction, then a word of thanks. The young man nodded and scurried off, and a moment later there emerged from the back a person who was certainly a pastry chef: he was as wide as three of Jiyong’s dad put together. The chef greeted Mr. Insull in the same language and beckoned them behind the counter and into the back. Jiyong followed his keeper, surprised.

“Generally speaking,” Mr. Insull informed him, noting his expression, “the chef’s table is the most coveted spot in any good restaurant; it is a privilege to be invited to it. And this is really the best patisserie in Chicago.” Jiyong nodded; he couldn’t see any reason for his millionaire (at the very least) companion to wish to sit in a kitchen otherwise.

Once they were installed at the table Mr. Insull shucked his coat and gloves and gestured for Jiyong to do likewise. One of the young men took their things and brought drinks. Jiyong waited for a menu but none was forthcoming. That wasn’t surprising: Mr. Insull was in the habit of ordering for him. He took a sip of black tea instead and gave his patron a smile. Just as he did so Mr. Insull’s eyes crinkled up in a look of satisfaction. Jiyong turned, and almost dropped his cup: approaching him was a huge and beautiful confection, so large he could barely see the waiter’s head behind it. Muscles tensed with the weight, the man placed it carefully on the table in front of him.

“…Sir!” breathed Jiyong, astounded; he stretched to peer at Mr. Insull over the top of it.

“Felicitations,” said Mr. Insull, fully smiling now, an extremely rare expression on his cool features.

“It’s _mine_?”

“Entirely.”

“I thought it was someone’s wedding cake!” Jiyong exclaimed; that was what he’d assumed when he’d seen it coming, that it’d be carried right past him to be collected by some happy wealthy bride. He stood up so he could admire it properly. There were three cakes in a stack – tiers, he thought they were called – each one a delicate shade of violet. One of the frostings looked rich and buttery, one was smooth and velvety, and one shone like a mirror. On the top were white chocolate butterflies and sugar flowers that looked absolutely real, and in a looping script that was hard to read someone had piped his name. It really _was_ for him! thought Jiyong, suddenly wanting to cry: his very first birthday cake.

“Do you like it?” Mr. Insull was asking him; the older man looked both smug and quietly entertained, but in a nice kinda way.

“Sir, it’s so _beautiful_! But how…how…?”

“I made a call while you were in the bath.” Mr. Insull shrugged but was obviously very pleased with his reaction. “A rush order. And when I ask for something I generally get it.” Jiyong laughed, and as he did so a few tears escaped; he swatted at them with the back of his hand and went back to admiring his cake. “You _can_ eat it, you know,” Mr. Insull told him after a minute. Of course! thought Jiyong; though it seemed almost criminal to cut into something so flawless. “You worry too much about spoiling things,” his patron scolded him, knowing what he was like. “As long as you are a good boy there’ll always be more cake.” He handed Jiyong a knife and a plate. “Go ahead: eat until you simply have to stop.” Jiyong had never obeyed an order so willingly.

Some time later they emerged from the restaurant. Jiyong had thought Mr. Insull might have to roll him out, he’d eaten so much; but how could he help it, with each tier an entirely different kind of cake? Rich chocolate, light lemon sponge, and dense fruitcake that must’ve had booze in it; he’d had about six slices and was now feeling rather sick – also to his keeper’s amusement. Mr. Insull had ordered the rest of the cake packed up and delivered to the apartment kitchens, which had one of the new ice boxes. Jiyong vaguely hoped he could keep it fresh long enough to let Lizzie have a taste, and arrange to meet his mom so she could give some to Dami and Soomin, but he wasn’t very capable of thinking at all at this moment: he was too full of sugar and pampering.

“Another walk, I think,” prescribed Mr. Insull, who’d only eaten two slices, leading his happy queasy charge down to stroll along the freezing lakefront. Jiyong was young and had an iron stomach; after a bit of exercise he felt better, well enough to want to _run_ – the sun was out and the breeze was fresh off the water. “Away you go, then,” said the older man in a level tone. “But don’t overdo it.”

Jiyong didn’t need telling twice: he jumped down off the boardwalk onto the shore and began to sprint. It was like liquor itself, or what he guessed it must feel like to drink, the speed and the cold giddying him; he hadn’t felt this free since…he didn’t know when, and in the exhilaration of the moment he stopped thinking of his father. He forgot to look back for a long while. When he did he saw he was far ahead of Mr. Insull, who was pacing sedately along the boards; all the same, he felt watched over. He couldn’t tell if it made him feel safe or constrained so he set off again full-pelt and was soon outta sight. That was just as well: obviously his stomach wasn’t _quite_ ready for racing, and five minutes later he was throwing up into some sand. He wiped his mouth and felt better. Glancing up at the boardwalk he saw Mr. Insull had somehow caught up with him – no way would the man have run, was he a magician or what?

“Come along,” said Mr. Insull. He shook his head in a way that Jiyong knew meant ‘I told you so’. “Morley has gone to fetch you a glass of water.” Jiyong craned his neck and saw the streamlined silhouette of the Packard in the road behind him, which solved the mystery.

“We gotta go?” he asked, disappointed. Vomit notwithstanding, he’d been having a marvelous time. Mr. Insull just nodded, so the boy clambered up to join him. The asshole chauffeur was crossing the street with a glass from one of the lakeside cafés. Jiyong drank it down, then got into the Packard with one last regretful glance at the Lake. He hoped he could come back soon.

“Quickly, please,” Mr. Insull told Morley, who’d been giving Jiyong the usual baffled glance as he shut his door for him. Jiyong wondered what the rush was; perhaps the older man wanted to avoid him throwing up in the car. To make sure he didn’t he closed his eyes and breathed deep as the big automobile rumbled away. He could feel Mr. Insull still watching him.

When he woke up the Packard had stopped and Mr. Insull was touching his shoulder. Jiyong yawned and sat up; where were they? Not home, that was for sure: there were people _everywhere_. He blinked dopily at them. Then his patron pointed silently upwards outta the window and Jiyong saw a huge sign above the milling crowd, illuminated in the late afternoon by a string of lights – Mr. Insull’s own electricity, no doubt. But Jiyong didn’t think of that ‘til much later because there was only one word that caught his gaze, one word that stood out in vast, gaudy letters: _Circus_.

“…Oh my God,” he said in a hushed voice, nose pressed against the window.

“I thought you might enjoy it.” Jiyong turned to Mr. Insull, his eyes welling up.

“ _Thank you_ , Sir!!” he cried, and then he was _really_ crying, laughing as he did so: it was the most perfect present he could imagine. Mr. Insull passed him an initialed handkerchief; he was half smiling, eyebrows raised, and as he blew his nose Jiyong realized he had no idea if his keeper remembered what he’d said the night they met about where he’d been trying to get to, or if he’d just assumed the circus was the kinda treat that would please a teenage boy. Either way it was a kind gesture, especially ‘cos it was one Mr. Insull was fairly unlikely to enjoy himself.

“Well, shall we go and see the sights?” said the older man encouragingly. “There is less than an hour before the main show, but I think that will give you time.”

“ _Yes_ ,” agreed Jiyong, voice still trembling as he fumbled with the car door before Morley could get to it. Entirely spontaneous, he said it again: “Thank you – I _love_ it.”

He did: everything about it. It was only a small outfit, he learned later, a one-ring circus and a Midway set up on the outskirts of the city, with no famous or dramatic acts. But it had been the most magical thing he’d ever seen. That night he returned to the apartment thrumming with excitement and fierce gratitude. As soon as Mr. Insull shut the door behind them Jiyong turned to him, caught his coat lapels in both hands and stretched up to kiss him; it was the first time he had ever done so of his own accord. Mr. Insull seemed kinda shocked, and no wonder, but that didn’t last long. Besides, Jiyong didn’t care – it was a fitting end to the most wonderful day of his short, screwed-up life.

* * *

“…Hello?” said Jiyong carefully, lifting the receiver to his ear. He wasn’t used to speaking on the telephone yet, but Mr. Insull hadn’t told him he was to ignore the one in the hall so he’d thought he’d better answer when it began ringing.

“Lobby,” said a brisk voice. Jiyong wasn’t sure what you were meant to say to that.

“Okay?” There was a pause while the speaker readjusted to Jiyong’s level.

“You’re the kid in 6A, right?”

“Uh-huh.” Perhaps there was a message from Mr. Insull? He couldn’t think who else would be trying to contact him; but why hadn’t his guardian just called direct?

“There’s some woman down here asking for you.” Jiyong felt his nerves tick up a gear.

“…Can’t she come up?”

“Not had any instructions from Mr. Insull about visitors,” said – presumably – the desk guard. “Also, she looks a bit…” The tone of his voice changed, and Jiyong guessed instantly who it was.

“I’m coming!” he exclaimed, then whacked the ‘phone down, threw on his shoes, and ran outta the apartment. The elevator operator gave him a befuddled look at his breathless “Lobby!” It seemed to take ages to get there. Jiyong burst through the patterned doors and in the wide marble foyer saw his mother. “Mom!” he called, his voice echoing in the high-ceilinged space.

“Oh, thank goodness…!” she called back as he ran to her. “I thought I’d got the wrong place, I…” She glanced around in awe at the lovely interior, as if she hadn’t really been able to picture the style in which her son was living ‘til right now. Jiyong took her hands; they were cold even in the mild spring weather and her wan face was flushed.

“What is it?” he demanded. Never in the months since he’d given her his address had she come around; he’d thought maybe she was embarrassed ‘cos her clothes, though nicer than they had once been thanks to the extra money, were enough to make people here look at her askance – like the jerk desk guard over there, who was watching them suspiciously. Or maybe she was embarrassed with _him_. His mother rubbed his hand with her thumb.

“Your father’s in the hospital.”

“What?” Jiyong went cold. “For what?!”

“He took an infection in his leg,” his mom explained in a rush, clinging to him tight. “He said it was nothing, you know what he’s like, but he got so feverish this morning and then he collapsed!” She pressed her lips together. “They’re doing tests now, to…to see if it isn’t influenza too.” Jiyong shivered – to him, like everyone else in America, the word was still terrifying.

“Which hospital?” That really, _really_ mattered – not many institutions were run properly, and some wouldn’t admit colored patients at all.

“Garfield Park. On Washington Boulevard.” Jiyong frowned.

“I never heard of it. It’s…good, right?”

“It’s a private hospital,” she reassured him, and gave him a look that could only be gratitude. “They wouldn’t have admitted him but for…well, for _you_ , baby. When I showed him I had money Father Andrews telephoned them for me and persuaded them – he didn’t want to but your father was so sick…” Jiyong just bet the priest hadn’t wanted anything to do with his sin-tainted dollars, but he could forgive the man if it’d help his dad.

“I hafta see him!” he announced, tugging her by the hand towards the exit – he’d make one of the doormen call a cab, he’d heard from Lizzie that there was some trouble in the streets again. He felt her pause.

“I wanted to tell you,” she said softly. “You needed to know. But…you know, he might not let you see him; if he’s awake at all.” Jiyong blinked hard against the sudden sting of tears. “So long as you’re prepared for that,” added his mother. Jiyong nodded and turned to the doorman.

“…I gotta try.”

Garfield Park Hospital was a handsome building that from the outside gave off an aura of reassurance: _your money can make you all better_ , it seemed to say. Jiyong hadn’t been in a hospital since the day he was born, and by all accounts that’d been the most basic welfare facility on the South Side. He wrinkled his nose as the medicinal smells hit him, and held tight to his mom’s hand as she hurried through the corridors to the inpatient wing.

“They might’ve quarantined him, I don’t know,” she warned him frantically. It didn’t take much for her fear to transmit itself to Jiyong: the influenza epidemic of the previous year seemed to hover over the city still, and though Jiyong had been shielded from the worst of it by his general isolation in the apartment he could feel the gravity of the disease in the very walls of the hospital.[3]

“Mrs. Kwon,” said a nurse sitting at a desk at the door of the ward. Jiyong’s mother gave her a breathless, pleading look. “He’s not quarantined,” was the first thing the Sister told her, clearly understanding her fear. “The doctor thinks it’s not ‘flu or pneumonia, just a high fever from his leg. We’ve disinfected everything and given him sterilized dressings.” Jiyong slumped against his mom in relief.

“We can go in?” asked his mother eagerly.

“Yes; but he’s not very lucid.” The nurse gave the pair of them a doubtful look, as if they might not understand what she was saying. “I can ask the doctor to come talk to you, but you should be aware there’s not a lot more treatment we can give your husband. Only time.” Fright clutched at Jiyong’s stomach again. “So we’ve put him on morphine for the pain – the rest is up to his strength of will.” Jiyong’s mother nodded, lips tight. “Try not to agitate him if he does come round,” was the nurse’s only advice. “Call me if there’s something wrong.” Jiyong wasn’t sure this was the high level of professional care he’d been expecting from a private institution, but he supposed they were lucky they’d been let in at all.

“Quietly, then, baby,” his mom murmured, and they stepped through the double doors. Jiyong saw a row of beds, some of them screened off but with little privacy overall. The room looked clean enough and he was glad to note a couple of younger nurses tending to the patients. He spotted his dad immediately, even at a distance: his always-thin face looked gaunt and he appeared to be sleeping – an uneasy sleep, his eyes were closed but he kept moving his head and his face was shiny. The stump where his leg ended was very clear beneath the hospital blanket, and the entire place smelled of something acrid and chemical. “Stay here just a moment,” whispered his mother, and padded off to press the back of her hand gently to the older man’s forehead. He stirred in his sleep with a grumbling mutter.

It hurt Jiyong more than he’d imagined to see his father in such a state. He’d gotten used to the sight of him in pain, whether it was the physical discomfort of his leg or the disgust Jiyong had so recently caused him – but like this he looked _weak_ , when even on his crutch he’d always seemed so strong, a figure that dominated the room from his chair. Jiyong crept forward: his mom had taken a seat beside the bed and was lightly sponging his father’s face. He started when his dad’s eyes flickered open and he began to speak. Then the crestfallen look on his mother’s features told Jiyong he was talking nonsense, still in the midst of his fever, and that he probably didn’t know she was there at all. It’d be okay for him to come closer, then, right? Holding his breath he approached the foot of the bed, wanting to cry – he loved his father, no matter what the man’s conduct towards him had been.

One of the passing nurses gave him a smiling “Hello”; she was young and pretty and at any other time Jiyong would’ve been grateful to see a kind face. As she spoke, however, his father’s eyes strained round in the direction of the sound and his delirious gaze seemed to fix on Jiyong, who began to smile with the unbounded relief that his parent was recognizing _something_. But even as he thought it the man’s eyes widened ‘til Jiyong could see the whites all around, and both trembling arms rose from the covers as if to reach his son, to hold him close or strike him, thin fingers hooked like bird talons with the tendons straining against his skin.

“ _Jaeyeon_!” cried Jiyong’s mother in shock as her husband began to struggle to sit up – he was growling something, Jiyong couldn’t tell what, and as his agitation grew his volume rose to a disjointed yell. Both nurses rushed to the bedside; the larger one clasped his dad’s arms firmly and spoke soothingly to him while the smaller woman nipped out of the room to summon a doctor.

“Dad…” managed Jiyong, backing away in horror – was this his fault?! The nurse glanced round.

“Out you go, my lad!” she said firmly, still grasping her patient. “You’re not helping!” Jiyong turned, stumbling, a hot, choked feeling in his throat at the sight of his father in such distress. He made it outta the ward and the Sister on desk duty stared at him.

“…Will he be okay?!” he panted. A white-coated man strode past him with the small nurse trotting in his wake.

“We’ll calm him down,” she said reassuringly. “But you’d better keep your distance for a while, honey!” The doors closed on her, and Jiyong slumped to the floor.

He sat there against the wall for hours, through the shift change; the new staff stared at him with raised eyebrows but he wouldn’t move ‘til he knew his dad was safe. At last his mother came out looking exhausted.

“They think he’ll make it,” she said immediately. She looked too tired to help him up so he struggled to his feet and gave her his arm to lean on. “Seems the fever’s breaking.” Jiyong shuddered out a breath. “I have to go home and feed the girls,” she told him faintly. “Then I should get to my night shift…”

“No way, Mom!” Jiyong told her, swallowing his tears – he had to be a man about this! “You mustn’t go back to the factory ‘til Dad’s better.”

“I’ll lose the job.”

“Doesn’t matter,” said Jiyong. “I’ll give you all my money, every cent, at least ‘til you find a new one! The girls matter, and Dad.” He put his arm around her. “…Let me support you properly,” he begged. It was the least he could do after…all this.

“Come home and see them.” His mom leaned against his side. “There’s nothing to stop you now, is there?” What a flutter of emotions that caused! “I’ll stop by the factory and explain,” she continued. “Maybe the Super will understand; and you can look after your sisters ‘til I get back.” She kissed his cheek. “You’d be doing me a favor.” Jiyong nodded, too full of a peculiar mix of worry and anticipation to even think about saying no – and too full to think of Mr. Insull at all.

* * *

It was late by the time he got back: almost nine. He stepped into the apartment, worn out but happy at seeing his overjoyed sisters and at the idea that his dad would with luck be okay. The lights were off; but as he walked into the sitting room a lamp clicked on, and there was Mr. Insull waiting for him.

“Sir, I can explain,” began Jiyong. “My dad’s in the hospital, and…” He trailed off. Mr. Insull didn’t move, didn’t say anything; he simply _looked_ at him. Jiyong gulped, his precariously cheerful mood dissolving. He had come to fear his keeper’s stare – _just_ the stare, that freezing look of disapproval – more than any possibility of physical punishment. It didn’t happen often ‘cos Jiyong was still too compliant and careful to really anger Mr. Insull, but he’d wondered sometimes what might happen if he ever got too comfortable. Jiyong knew he wasn’t by nature an especially well-behaved boy. If the old man ever really lost it… Well, he’d take care it didn’t happen, that was all. At least, that was what he told himself – but he might’ve really done it this time.

“Where were you?” his keeper said at last; very quiet, but with a tension around the moustache that said a storm might be brewing.

“At the hospital in Garfield Park,” repeated Jiyong. “My mom came to fetch me, my dad’s real sick!” He was very sorry for angering Mr. Insull, but not at all sorry for going: his family meant more to him than anything. Besides, it wasn’t _that_ big a deal…surely? There was a silence, and to Jiyong’s relief he saw the frost in his patron’s stare gradually thaw at the earnest explanation. Those gray eyes went right through cool, then warm, and at last to the flash of his usual annoyance. Jiyong stood firm, insofar as that was possible with such a man.

“You are _never_ to do that again!” said Mr. Insull harshly, making him jump. “In the middle of this racial disturbance? Do you not know what’s happening out there?”[4] Of course Jiyong knew about the fighting, Lizzie had told him all of it; she was scared outta her wits, but _she_ still managed to get to work and back on her own every day. If a young African-American girl could face the risks why couldn’t Jiyong?

“I took a cab!” Jiyong shot back; he sounded rude, he could hear it, but he was still smarting and unnerved by what’d happened at the hospital. He wanted comforting – he wanted a cuddle. There was no expecting that, though, not with Mr. Insull in this mood. “But my mom…my dad, I hafta go if they need me!” The older man curled his lip for a moment, staring off at the wall. Then he sighed.

“I’ll write down the telephone number of my secretary. If there is something wrong you’ll _call_ , and she will pass on the message. If necessary I shall send the car for you to use.”

“What the hell’s she gunna think of that?” Jiyong exclaimed. The moustache bristled at his language but Jiyong was still too het-up to care.

“I have many charitable concerns,” replied Mr. Insull. “I doubt she will think of you any differently.” That ticked Jiyong off even more; not the idea that he was a charity case – he felt no shame at taking the vast sums of money his patron gave him – but the insinuation that he was simply one of many duties. Most likely the older man had said it on purpose.

“Thanks a lot!” Another long stare, turning cold again at his rudeness – one that sapped Jiyong slowly of annoyance and made him think that maybe this time his keeper was really, really serious.

“Of course you may see your mother – with my consent. But if you leave without informing me again,” said Mr. Insull smoothly, “I shall make changes to this relationship you may regret. That is all.”

Jiyong went to bed wondering what that warning meant, but his worry about his father soon eclipsed it. Either way, he didn’t sleep.

* * *

His father recovered. Jiyong prayed when he heard that, for the first time in a long while; got on his knees and gave God his gratitude. Mr. Insull came into the bedroom while he was at it and shot him a look that was ambiguous but not entirely displeased. Jiyong knew the man liked him to be good, and he knew he’d made Mr. Insull pretty mad last time.

“Do you feel better?” asked his guardian, briefly stroking the curve of his ear before going to dress for dinner.

“Yeah.” Jiyong’s dad had been in the hospital five days before they let him go home. He was still very weak, his mom said, but it seemed he was in the clear. They hadn’t told him who’d paid for his treatment, and Jiyong supposed it was better that way.

“Take the car whenever you please,” said Mr. Insull, for whom offering favors was apparently his main way of expressing kindness.

“I dunno…” Jiyong sighed. “I don’t think Mom’s gunna have a lotta time to see me for a while. And…” He swallowed. “And God knows what’ll happen if I show my face around Dad again.” It had almost killed his parent the last time!

“Still, the offer is there.” Mr. Insull aimed the usual gray gaze at him, read the weariness and stress in his face, and said: “Would you prefer to stay in tonight? We can dine quietly, without interruption. You can read to me.” There was never an evening out in which some bigwig didn’t come and start talking to the older man – he seemed to know everyone in town, and half the time it turned into a lengthy business discussion. Jiyong smiled up at him, grateful that he wouldn’t have to worry about silverware or company manners for one night.

“Thank you, Sir.” Mr. Insull looked pleased; and also, perhaps, a little relieved. Jiyong didn’t think much about that at the time; but when he thought back on that expression later, he realized it was the beginning of a shift that would eventually change his life forever.

* * *

Jiyong received a great deal of his guardian’s attention over the next few weeks – more than he was used to – and while he appreciated the company he couldn’t deny it was stifling him slightly. His mom was too busy caring for his father to meet often, and his few other social activities were gradually being curtailed. At first Jiyong thought it was a punishment, but it went on so long that he changed his mind. It was weird, actually. Mr. Insull didn’t seem to wanna go out anymore, not since the night his young charge had gone AWOL; he didn’t make Jiyong do his lessons with his usual rigor; even the sex decreased. These days the older man liked to lie in, or sit talking with Jiyong on the sofa after dining at the apartment – he said it was too ‘dangerous’ to take him out, what with the unrest in the city. He’d been more affectionate, insofar as his character would allow it, and would gaze at Jiyong by the hour as if he drew vitality just from looking at him. Jiyong wondered if he might be sickening for something – the city was still in the fading grip of influenza and an old guy like this one had to be at risk, plus since the scare with his father he was feeling paranoid – but Mr. Insull’s appetite seemed as strong as ever so he couldn’t be.

Asking him was outta the question: Jiyong had tried inquiring what was wrong once and was snapped at in reply. Normally he’d take that in stride, but to his own surprise he’d snapped back, spurred on by a flash of anger that came out of nowhere. He’d been spanked and that’d woken him up, but these days it was as if neither of them could be trusted with their tempers, despite their increased closeness. Jiyong figured his own sour mood was probably a mixture of anxiety about his family and a case of cabin fever – and if Mr. Insull wouldn’t take him out he was perfectly capable of taking _himself_. That oughta fix this crossness. He’d been given permission to see his mother, on the condition he was escorted by Morley (whatever good _that_ was meant to do against a race riot mob). But as the spring turned into summer Jiyong found he needed something more: a change of scene, people, _youth_ ; and when it came to sneaking out he decided it was easier to beg forgiveness than ask permission. He only hoped he’d never be required to do either.

* * *

It was very easy to leave the apartment. Not if he went the regular route, of course, with its manned elevator and porters and doormen; instead he’d creep down the service stairs and outta one of the side doors, and once he was a block away the city was his.

Just occasionally he would go haunt the little school where his sisters were studying – he trusted they were working hard at their books, he wanted them to have more prospects than he’d ever imagined for himself – and would hope to catch a glimpse of them or maybe meet them when classes got out. He didn’t want the teachers to catch sight of him ‘cos who knew what they might’ve heard? They’d not had a very high opinion of him when _he’d_ been an inmate there; he was sure they’d try and stop him seeing the girls.

“When are you coming home?” Soomin would always ask. She was too young to understand.

“One day,” said Jiyong, as she wrapped all four limbs around him; Dami was looking at him. He didn’t think she knew either, just that he’d fought with their dad. Still, she evidently thought _something_ was up.

“Don’t you like all the nice things to eat we’ve been having?” she asked Soomin. The smaller girl nodded; they both looked healthy these days, which was a constant comfort to Jiyong. “Well, that’s ‘cos Ji got a good job. So you gotta let him go do it.” Soomin nodded again, thoughtful. Jiyong met Dami’s eyes and she gazed solemnly at him for a moment. “We’d better get home,” she said at last, disengaging Soomin.

“How’s Dad?” asked Jiyong hurriedly, trying to sound normal.

“Sad,” Soomin said. Dami sighed and elaborated.

“He’s still not very strong – Mom says the hospital wore him out. Then he heard something bad happened back home, Korea, I mean.” She shrugged. “And ever since then he’s been worse.” Jiyong recalled the article Mr. Insull had read to him just last week, thinking it would interest him: some big independence movement against the Japanese called something like ‘First of March’. It’d been put down violently but the unrest was still continuing.[5] For Jiyong, who had never been there and didn’t have more than a passing emotional connection with his parents’ country, this news had been only mildly concerning. But his father had always been fiercely full of national pride; no wonder he was down in the dumps.

“He’s grumpy,” added Soomin. The older children shook their heads above her; then it really was time to go.

“Say hi to Mom,” requested Jiyong as they parted.

“And Papa?” added Soomin. With a lump in his throat Jiyong looked at Dami silently. She sighed again. The two girls walked off hand in hand, and all Jiyong could do was rack his brains as to how he might make their lives without him better.

When he wasn’t lurking around the school he went to the Lake. It was convenient and close to the apartment, and Jiyong had enjoyed his birthday outing there so much that he’d thought about it for weeks afterward, leaning on his balcony rail and watching the shoreline. He felt almost free there, as if the vast water was an ocean that might carry him anywhere. There were always people around to watch, and boats. Best of all were the other youngsters on the shore: playing with their friends or skipping work or, like him, trying to escape from something.

Jiyong met a couple of kids close to his age and one a bit younger, and though he didn’t know them well he was always glad to see them when he could get out. Occasionally Lizzie would join them. The boy and girl were siblings, their dark skin lightened to topaz by a white grandparent, which meant at least one of their parents had probably been conceived out of wedlock. Jiyong didn’t care. Most kids around the Lake were wary of him ‘cos he looked foreign but Marvin and May didn’t seem bothered at all. The first time they spoke, after Jiyong had proclaimed his admiration for May’s long skip of a stone across the water, he could tell they were above him socially: their voices were nicely modulated and they lacked the Chicago twang. Marvin told him their parents had brought them here from Boston. Jiyong wondered if his own nice clothes had been kinda false advertising; he felt ignorant next to them. They didn’t seem to mind, though. They told him they were at a fancy private academy on the outskirts of town but were allowed to come and play after. Jiyong was surprised, he didn’t know colored kids even had that kind of option, and it made him wonder if he might one day get his sisters into a similar school.

The other boy that made up their occasional gang was pug-ugly and white as white could be, or at least you’d guess he was under all the grime. His hair was ashy blonde, although that might be ‘cos of the factory dirt, and he was even skinnier than Jiyong. They never found out his real name: Bunt, he called himself, Jiyong never understood why. He was younger than the rest of them and worked (quite illegally) a menial job up near the Union Stock Yards like Youngbae, but he liked to come down to the Lake when his shift was done; sometimes he even bathed in it. Jiyong knew nothing about his home life, where he lived or with whom. All that mattered was that he could show them every way a group of unsupervised teenagers might have a good time.

Jiyong always had to leave early. Some days it was a drag to tear himself away from the shore, especially as the evenings grew warmer and longer: the bright sparkling water and bustle and friends – of a sort – were a constant draw. But unlike them, he had nighttime responsibilities: he was a _mistress_ , or so he figured when he fully understood what the word meant. And these days his master was both very eager to be with him and angry at the slightest provocation.

* * *

He was having another of his antsy days. Mr. Insull had stayed the night and they’d breakfasted together in the morning before his keeper had rather reluctantly gone to work. The older man hadn’t seemed on top form, like he was hardly looking forward to it, and lingered a long time after Jiyong had fastened his necktie. That was rare for him, but totally understandable: after all, who’d choose to go sit in an office on such a beautiful day? Jiyong as usual was sorry to see him leave, insofar as Mr. Insull was better than no company at all.

He worked at his reading for a bit but was soon distracted – what else was there to do, though? It was Lizzie’s day off and he wasn’t likely to see his guardian again ‘til tomorrow afternoon, however eager Mr. Insull was to come around these days. Jiyong dawdled away some time considering what to have for lunch (the idea that he might choose what he ate was still a novelty), then ordered it. A deadpan waiter brought it up – you could never get any conversation outta those guys – and Jiyong tipped him from the stack of coins Mr. Insull left by the door. And then…

And then what? The afternoon stretched out like a featureless trail ahead of him, no way to amuse himself ‘til dinner. But there was the lakeshore just outside, warm and inviting. His usual companions might not be around but it was better than nothing. Jiyong poked his head out the front door of the apartment, stuck a few coins in his pocket, then glided out and down the service stairs. He didn’t have his own key so he left the door unlocked; there was too much security for burglars anyway. It was always hard to cross from the stairs to the back door ‘cos there were so many goddamn staff in the place, but by the skin of his teeth he managed it and slipped into the alley behind the building. As soon as he turned the corner he felt the wind ruffling his hair and smelled the Lake. He crossed the wide street with its ambling vehicles, and there in front of him was the beach, with Grant Park and the new Navy Pier off in the distance. Bicyclists zipped past him. From the shore he could hear bird calls and kids, and the sound of vendors hawking snacks. He kept his ears peeled warily for any acrimonious voices – anything that might signal the kinda disturbance Mr. Insull kept warning him about. In this neighborhood he knew it was unlikely, so he trotted down onto the beach without much worry.

Jiyong spent the whole afternoon there. At first there was no-one he knew around and nobody who looked like they wanted to play with him, so he mooched along the shore by himself enjoying the sights, eating an ice-cream cone and an Oreo to sustain himself. Later his companions turned up and they played a complicated game of Tag, then hide-and-seek, dodging the cops that patrolled the shore and were intolerant of raucous lower-class kids. Bunt assured them that exploring around the Pier and under the boards could result in such delights as finding a dead body, products of the city’s gang warfare. Jiyong was pretty sure he was just showing off in front of May, and indeed the worst thing they uncovered was a young couple necking behind a grounded boat.

When they got hungry Jiyong treated them to hamburgers; Bunt always looked starving and Jiyong remembered exactly how it felt. They sat by the water as the sun set, necks craned upward to see who’d be the first to spot a star above the lights of the city. It’d been such a perfect day after its unpromising beginning that Jiyong forgot the time completely, forgot to even worry about it. It was only when Marvin told May they had to be getting home for supper that he felt his responsibilities crash back on top of him.

“Jesus!” he exclaimed, jumping to his feet, body chilled with sitting. “I gotta be home, like, an hour ago!” Mr. Insull had taken to calling him on the evenings he didn’t come over – ‘cos he wanted to hear Jiyong’s voice, he said, though Jiyong was sure it was to check up on him. More than that, though, his own sense of what was due his guardian was enough to make him feel guilty for being out so late. There were limits, after all.

“Man, your parents must be _strict_ ,” commented Marvin in his easy-going way. Jiyong was glad it was too dark for them to see him blush.

“Yeah,” he said awkwardly. “See you guys next week, right?” They nodded and he turned and dashed up the beach, headlong across the street and back to the apartment building. It was easier to get out than get in but somehow he managed it, hiding in the shadows from a bellboy on his way down the stairs. He slunk along the broad corridor, relieved and just a little proud of himself that he had his priorities right – that he’d been a good boy. He reached for the doorknob, and paused.

The hall light was on: Jiyong saw it shining under the door, and swallowed; goddammit, of all the luck! He knew what it meant, of course – Mr. Insull was here. Why had he come again today?! he thought in dismay. For a second he considered creeping off and finding someplace else to spend the night; he had a couple of coins in his pocket, or if all else failed he could choose some corner of the building to curl up in. He didn’t wanna face his keeper right now – not after what he’d said the last time he’d caught Jiyong skipping out: that vague threat. But Jiyong wasn’t a coward, so he squared his shoulders and opened the door.

“Jiyong.” He heard movement from the sitting room, and quicker than he’d have thought the old man could shift Mr. Insull was in the hall.

“I’m sorry!” said Jiyong pre-emptively, in case it’d help.

“…Where have you been?” He blinked: Mr. Insull sounded stranger than this morning, voice low and not quite level. His face looked damp and rather white, though beneath the spectacles and the moustache it was kinda hard to tell.

“I just…” he began. What story would his patron prefer to hear?

“I asked you a question.”

“I just went to pass the time with some friends!”

“Friends?” Mr. Insull placed his hand on the hall table; Jiyong could see him leaning on it. _Was_ he jealous, maybe? Perhaps he was getting a taste of what his wife had to deal with on a daily basis. Jiyong couldn’t tell; he was so hard to read.

“We met on the lakeshore,” he said. “They’re just some kids.” The older man didn’t look soothed, but he turned and stalked back into the other room. Jiyong pursed his lips and followed.

“I wished to see you,” Mr. Insull said in an odd tone. “I left my meeting early, just to spend time with you.” Jiyong started: that was almost unheard-of, he knew his keeper’s priorities better than anyone.

“I said I’m sorry.” He _was_ sorry. “But it’s not like it’s late.” He oughta be more polite but it was getting difficult recently; Jiyong didn’t know what was wrong with him: he knew what he owed this man, but sometimes that debt simply wouldn’t come to mind. He was moody and dissatisfied at the weirdest times – and this was the _worst_ time. Very quietly Mr. Insull added:

“…I _needed_ to see you.”

“Why, Sir?” asked Jiyong, surprised – that was an unlikely statement coming from him. Mr. Insull’s eyes seemed to turn a paler gray.

“It’s your job, that is why.” When he exhaled Jiyong heard his breath shake. What was going _on_? Jesus, he must really be mad this time.

“I’m here now: do whatever you need.” A spanking, sex, whatever would put him on an even keel again.

“Didn’t I ask you to call if you wished to go out?” demanded the older man, ignoring him.

“You’d have said no!”

“Because it’s not safe. A boy was killed, or did you forget?”

“I can handle myself – I’m not some namby-pamby rich kid, Sir.” Neither was the child who’d been murdered, Jiyong knew, but he was too exasperated to be logical.

“…I very much regret that you’ve done this,” Mr. Insull told him after what seemed some internal struggle. Jiyong shrugged; what else could he say? He was ready for his punishment. “I told you what would happen the last time.” Mr. Insull’s hand was shaking: fury, Jiyong was sure. He was also damn sure his anger had very little to do with concern for his charge’s safety and was almost entirely about the fact of his disobedience. Oh, this man loved control like Jiyong loved money!

“I’m going _mad_ , Sir!” he snapped. Mr. Insull glared at him. “I hardly leave this apartment! You don’t come around every day, and even when you do…” He pushed a hand through his hair in frustration. “Are you the only person I’m ever gunna meet?” This didn’t seem to help.

“You have your young friend in this building, do you not?” Jiyong blinked: he hadn’t realized Mr. Insull knew about Lizzie.

“It’s not enough!” His keeper’s jaw tightened, knuckles going white at his rudeness. Jiyong didn’t care.

“Is a little solitude such a hard price to pay for what I have given you?”

“I’m just _telling_ you, Sir,” urged Jiyong, eyeing those hands warily; would today be the day Mr. Insull finally took a page outta his father’s book? “I’m a human being: I need _some_ things in my life that aren’t you!” Abruptly Mr. Insull took a seat, now cold and pale as a snow sculpture. He was silent for a long moment, lip curled in his distinctive expression of thought. At last he leaned back and gazed up at Jiyong as if something difficult had been decided.

“Well _I_ shall tell _you_ something: I’m going away.”

“…Away?” said Jiyong, still sulky but given pause by the statement. His stomach tensed up: excitement or worry? “Where? For how long?” Had he made Mr. Insull _that_ mad?

“I don’t know. Some months. I have business in Europe.” His employer dabbed at his forehead with a handkerchief, still rather pale, as if his anger wasn’t done freezing his insides. “Yes, I…I have to.”[6]

“ _Months_?” So this wasn’t about him. Jiyong suppressed a tiny smile: what wouldn’t he be able to do with months of license and freedom?! What fun he could have up here with Lizzie! His mom and sisters! While the cat’s away, he thought with rising glee. Mr. Insull looked at him as if he could read his mind.

“Indeed. And I cannot keep you here: I’m leasing out the apartment.” Jiyong took a quick, shocked breath and exclaimed instinctively in Korean, because suddenly he was afraid; afraid and disbelieving – what did _that_ mean? Was he to be abandoned now just ‘cos his keeper was angry and feeling spiteful enough to cast him off?! Of all the overreactions…! The next thought that occurred to him was…perhaps he could _go home_. If Mr. Insull no longer wanted him couldn’t Jiyong swear he’d seen the error of his ways and beg his sick and weakened father’s forgiveness? Christians liked remorse, didn’t they? But he quickly stopped spinning that fantasy, ‘cos what was the reason he was with Mr. Insull in the first place?

“…So what do _I_ do?” he demanded; he knew his voice made him sound betrayed. If this old crumb was gunna leave him then he’d better damn well fix Jiyong’s employment problem before he went! His family needed him as much as ever – at least, they needed his wages. Mr. Insull gave a ‘hmph’ that said he didn’t appreciate his tone.

“You wished to ‘meet more people’, correct?” he asked with more than a touch of sarcasm.

“Yes, but-!” exclaimed Jiyong. Where was _this_ going?

“And I take it you’d like to keep making money until I return?” Jiyong nodded a little less insolently, biting his lip; more than anything else _that_ was what was important, even if Mr. Insull _was_ coming back (which was a relief to hear, though he wasn’t about to admit it) – and so he had to keep this impossible man sweet. Mr. Insull gave him a look that told Jiyong he knew exactly what he was thinking. After a long pause he said: “Then I shall bring you to a house where you will have the opportunity to satisfy both wishes at once.” His moustache twitched upward as he spoke, but it was by no means the usual pleasant half-smile.

“…What is it?” asked Jiyong, his heart sinking into his boots again at the thought of the unknown – the thought of Mr. Insull actually leaving. His patron still looked weird, but he sighed.

“I will explain when we get there.”

* * *

“Where?” said Jiyong very quietly as Morley loaded his trunk onto the roof of the Packard; Mr. Insull had ordered him to pack his things and gone to make a telephone call – presumably about Jiyong. He didn’t seem at all inclined to reconsider. Jiyong oughta have tried to listen in, to figure out _something_ about whatever fate his disobedience had earned him, but he’d been too disbelieving and angry at Mr. Insull’s out-of-proportion reaction to think of anything so smart. The chauffeur opened the heavy car door for him; Jiyong reluctantly sat down and was shut inside. His keeper followed him. There seemed a great deal of distance between them on the back seat, but across it Jiyong could feel the weight of Mr. Insull’s disappointment. As the car pulled away he turned to stare back at the lovely apartment building, unsure if he would ever see it again – and gradually his anger at both himself and his patron became fear.

“Generally it is known as ‘the House’,” Mr. Insull informed him after a silence, as if he’d been mulling over how much he felt like reassuring Jiyong. Not much, was the boy’s conclusion: it sounded ominous.

“Is it close by?”

“Yes.” Jiyong sighed, a little relieved that they weren’t leaving the city; when he looked outta the window he saw they were traversing the Loop, its landmarks lit up in the summer dark – Mr. Insull’s own L train clattered past above them as they headed South.

“…Are there other people there?”

“Yes,” said Mr. Insull shortly; he still looked kinda ill. Jiyong tried to imagine: one of his factories? A reform school? Someplace he would live and could earn money, he had said – what could it be?

While he was worrying they entered a wide and spacious street, still on the Near South Side as far as Jiyong could judge but further than he’d ever been accustomed to wander. Even in the dark he could tell it was a place for the wealthy. The Packard slowed, drawing up at a huge three-story house on the corner; it was white and picturesque, with a broad staircase leading up to the front door and every window blazing with light. He gawped at the beautiful building, thinking that whatever lay inside couldn’t be _so_ bad.

“Come along.” Mr. Insull’s voice was terse as they exited the car, but the hand he set in Jiyong’s back was gentle. He steered him up the steps, leaving Morley to deal with the luggage, and rapped peremptorily at the knocker. Almost immediately the large door was pulled ajar and a well-dressed woman in her late thirties was looking down at them. She stepped back quickly to allow Mr. Insull entry. “You have a room prepared for him?” said the older man without preamble, while Jiyong stood staring around the huge and opulent hall. He could hear music and laughter coming from someplace nearby; as he craned his neck he spotted a young woman in a floaty, shimmery gown disappearing into a room. Seemed like there was a party going on, he thought with a spark of excitement.

“Yessir,” replied the woman, who sounded brusque as Jiyong’s old schoolteachers; her features were elegant but severe and beginning to turn hawkish with age. “Just about.” She stepped across to a bell-pull, and a few moments later a maid and a large solid man in black evening-wear emerged from somewhere. “Take his things,” she instructed. “Second floor, third room from the end.”

“This is Mrs. Moore,” Mr. Insull told Jiyong coolly, hand still at his back; Jiyong drew a little closer to him, baffled and unnerved at what was happening, at this strange place. “Anything you need, she will provide for you; anything you wish to know she will explain to you.”

“…What am I doing here?” managed Jiyong, his voice quivering in a way that made him sound like a kid. Normally he didn’t like to let his keeper see his fear, but now he _wanted_ him to know: how could he leave him alone in this house?!

“You are to live here, Jiyong,” said Mr. Insull. “And you are to behave while I’m away – if you do not I’ll hear of it.” He looked down into Jiyong’s face, his own features white and unreadable. “I hope you will try to be happy. And, once you get used to things, perhaps you will choose to work here; I assure you the money is good.”

“Why, Sir?” asked Jiyong, groping unconsciously for his sleeve and clinging to it; the man’s hand felt unsteady. “What the hell _is_ this place?” He saw Mrs. Moore roll her eyes. Mr. Insull paused, then exhaled firmly.

“It’s a brothel.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> 3A pandemic of ‘Spanish Flu’ spread in 1918-19, killing an estimated 50 million people worldwide (as seen on _Downton Abbey_!). The Chicago epidemic in autumn 1918 saw 38,000 cases of influenza and 13,000 of pneumonia. In order to stop it spreading, “all public gatherings of a social nature” were banned (influenzaarchive.org).[return to text]  
> 
> 
> 4These were the infamous Chicago race riots that Seunghyun refers to in _Bombshell_ , which made his parents ban him from the South Side for the rest of 1919.[return to text]  
> 
> 
> 5This was the Sam-il (March 1st) movement by Korean activists against their Japanese colonizers in 1919. It began with huge demonstrations and continued in resistance involving over 2 million people, which eventually led to violent repression by the Japanese military and the deaths of several thousand Koreans.[return to text]  
> 
> 
> 6Some years earlier in his career Insull had three nervous breakdowns due to overwork and had to go recuperate in Europe (Wasik, _The Merchant of Power_ , 2007). The current (fictional) one he’s having is probably due instead to him being not busy enough: in her memoir _Big Bosses: A Working Girl’s Memoir of Jazz Age America_ (1932/2016), secretary Althea Altemus recalls that after Insull’s office got organized and delegated a lot of his tasks to people below him, he became very crabby and ill-tempered. So I got the feeling he’d deal even worse with too little work (because of the perceived loss of control) than he would with too much. This is also probably why he chose to take up with Jiyong at this particular time, because he was bored – and compared to an ordinary mistress he would see Jiyong as eminently ripe for moulding and controlling.[return to text]  
> 
> 
> And so Jiyong begins a new chapter in his life - but there's still a long way to go (and a lot of Insull!) before Seunghyun enters it :)


	3. I Ain't Givin' Nothin' Away

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> In which Jiyong tries his hardest to get used to a strange new world.

Jiyong woke with a start: another big bed in a strange room, but when he looked across this time there was no rich old man waiting for him with offers of care and luxury. His heart sank when he remembered: Mr. Insull was _gone_ , how far and for how long he didn’t know – and his new home was a whorehouse.

He wriggled down from the high bed, still shaken by the bad dream that’d woken him, and pulled back the curtains. His room was one of several on this side of the corridor, and looked onto a spacious and nicely manicured back yard with more gardens and large houses divided up by alleyways behind. He could hear a few automobiles but the main street – Upper Prairie, Mrs. Moore had told him – seemed quiet. As was the rest of the house. Jiyong got dressed hurriedly, not quite sure where he was supposed to be and when, or even what he was meant to do in this place; nobody had told him anything, he’d been sent to bed right after Mr. Insull had simply _left_ him here. He opened the door and with some trepidation crept down the wide flight of stairs into the grand entrance hall. There was no-one around.

“Hello?” said Jiyong, his high voice echoing in the space. Nothing. He pursed his lips, then began an exploration of the first floor. He got lost almost immediately: it was just room after magnificent room, thick carpets and gold and paintings, each one larger than the last. Eventually he reached the end of the crimson-rugged hallway, and there was a smaller door with faint domestic sounds coming from behind it. Jiyong slipped through and found himself in another labyrinth.

“Whoa!” exclaimed someone, running into him with a heavy tray and almost knocking him down. “Who’s this, then?” Jiyong felt a moment’s relief ‘cos at least everybody hadn’t simply vanished in the night; and the woman, who was wearing another maid’s outfit, spoke in a comfortingly working-class accent.

“Hi,” he said shyly, helping her steady the tray. “Sorry.” She started, perhaps at his own South Side English – he’d gotten used to people being surprised he was a native.

“…You’re the boy!” she concluded after a long, fascinated stare. Jiyong supposed news got around fast. “Jeez, you’re just a kid – what’re you doing in a place like this?”

“I dunno,” said Jiyong, feeling doleful. He supposed he could try actually _being_ a servant, at least if no other instructions came his way.

“But Mr. Insull brought you, right? Didn’t he tell you?” There was an awkward silence; what was he meant to say to that?

“Where is everyone?” he asked eventually. The maid had turned and was hustling along a narrow corridor, so he had to jog after her.

“This time in the morning?” she said over her shoulder. “The young ladies’ll be in bed for hours yet; the rest of us have our duties. If you want something to eat just head thataway and downstairs to the kitchen and someone’ll feed you – we don’t prepare a proper meal ‘til lunch. But mind you don’t get underfoot!”

“But…” managed Jiyong as she whisked around a corner. “What’m I meant to _do_?”

“Beats me, sweetheart!” came her vanishing voice. Jiyong came to a stop and realized he was lost again. He sighed, a bit tearful, but pulled himself together and began his quest to find the kitchen; already he missed his catered apartment, snobby waiters included. And already he wanted Mr. Insull to come home.

He was curled on his bed with an apple reading one of the kids’ novels his keeper had given him when his bedroom door opened without a knock – it had a lock but no key – and two young women poked their heads round it. After a second they sashayed in.

“We heard there was a boy here!” said one, who looked to be in her mid-twenties with ice blue eyes and pale Scandinavian hair in curl-papers. She peered doubtfully at Jiyong’s petite frame and small face. “That’s you, right?”

“Yes, Miss,” he told her politely. Her companion snorted.

“And you’re Mr. Insull’s?” inquired the second girl, perhaps nineteen with green eyes, a green dressing robe, and fiery Irish hair in a mad mass of curls. Both women were extremely attractive. This one had a local accent, and ran on before Jiyong could respond: “The maids said so. What you doing here?”

“Not sure,” Jiyong confessed. He shuffled backwards anxiously as they plumped themselves down on the bed. They didn’t look satisfied, so he added sadly: “…I think I’m being punished.”

“You’re his boy-toy, right?”

“I guess,” said Jiyong in a low voice; he hoped it was still true.

“Who’d’ve thought it?” said the redhead with a grin at her friend. “Here we figured the boss was such a stick-in-the-mud, but all the while he’s a randy old goat like the rest of ‘em! And a _boy_ , too!”

“ _I_ thought it,” the blonde replied smugly, turning to her. “You’d only been here a few months, I think, so you probably didn’t hear; but there was a rumor going round last winter that the boss was suddenly coming around and spending a whole hour _alone_ with Mrs. Moore every week. And for what? Some of us thought they were having an affair.” Both women sniggered at the idea. “But one evening I just so happened to overhear, and she was – oh, it was too funny! – she was lecturing him on how a man should ‘make love’ to a man!” They caught each other’s eye, and after a pause fell about laughing.

“Can you _imagine_ …!” said the younger girl, as if the idea of Mr. Insull even mentioning sex was the most diverting thing in the world.

“I can imagine Mrs. Moore knows a thing or two about a thing or two,” said the other woman, wiping her eyes. “I thought the boss had gone mad!” She gave Jiyong another unreserved once-over. “But here you are: a mystery solved.”

Jiyong had been listening to these statements with wide eyes; he’d never heard anyone talk that way about Mr. Insull before, and if he wasn’t so nervous he might even find it funny too – but not now.

“The boss?” was all he could think to say. “You mean…he _owns_ this place?!” God, he would never’ve imagined it either! Puritan, indeed.

“Christ, you really don’t know anything,” the woman in green exclaimed in a condescending tone.

“Oh, like you weren’t just as clueless last year, Lily!” her friend chided her. The redhead flapped one creamy-white hand dismissively.

“How old are you?” she demanded instead.

“Er…fourteen?”

“Jesus.” For a second they both looked solemn. Lily shook her head. “So! Are you here to fuck or what?”

“…What, _now_?!” exclaimed Jiyong, staring at the two beautiful barely-dressed creatures on his bed in pure horror. The blonde burst out laughing; Lily just curled her lip at him.

“No, dumbass! For _pay_. What, you think this is a church social? We’re hookers – and so is anyone else in here who’s not a domestic or a manager.” She leaned forward to prod him in the thigh. “So, little jailbait, what’re _you_?”

“I don’t know,” said Jiyong, trying not to let his voice crack. “I dunno _anything_.”

“Oh, boy!” Lily grabbed him by the arm and he shrank back, she didn’t exactly have a reassuring manner, but she dragged him up and off the bed – she was _strong_. “Come make yourself useful, then,” she ordered. “And maybe we’ll tell you what’s what.” Not having a lot else to do – or a lotta choice – Jiyong followed.

* * *

Over the next several days Jiyong tried to get accustomed to his new home and new life, but there was so much to learn and he was so often bewildered he couldn’t say it was a pleasant experience. Mrs. Moore was meant to explain things to him and she’d occasionally answer his questions, but she was obviously a woman with a mission: to corral and manage fifteen high-priced women and an uncountable number of rich customers, not to mention a housekeeper and several shifts of servants. He gathered she was known as a ‘Madam’. There was a manager dealing with finances and whatnot but Jiyong had only met him for a few minutes – he’d stared at Jiyong as if to say ‘Jesus, what now’, and just told the boy to ask for whatever (within reason) he needed: Mr. Insull would pay for everything. But he didn’t mention how Jiyong could make some money of his own; in fact nobody had said one word to him about work. So what was he meant to _do_ here?

Lily filled in the gaps with the occasional help and hindrance of the other workers. He’d been told she was the latest addition to the House, only a year’s experience, and he guessed it was nice for her to have someone to bully. Having nothing better to do Jiyong spent his afternoons fetching and carrying for her and the girls, helping them get ready, learning to dress hair and apply cosmetics. In return they showed him what he might expect from life in this luxurious temple of sin.

“It’s illegal, you know,” said the blonde, Emelie, on his second day, as if it was entirely Jiyong’s fault he’d been sleeping with a billionaire forty years his senior. “You’re too young.”

“Isn’t everyone in this House breaking the law?” asked Jiyong; he didn’t know much but he knew whorehouses were often targeted by the cops.

“Touché.”

“I mean, are we gunna get raided every month or what?” Emelie shook her head like he was a complete ignoramus.

“We’re even more expensive than the Everleigh Club over in the Levee,” said the young woman proudly. “And more exclusive. Of course the cops don’t come around – it wouldn’t be allowed.”

“Ah.”

“I mean, the Chief of Police is over here every Saturday night and sometimes he’ll clap the handcuffs on; but it’s not to arrest us, I’ll tell you that!”

“Ohh.” Jiyong recalled Mr. Insull telling him he’d been talking with the head of the Chicago P.D. when the race riots were brewing. He’d never have guessed the guy was one of his clients!

That night Jiyong snuck a peek at how the women of the House went about their business with more than enough skill to keep the police from their door. He soon saw that between them they had what it took to charm any man in Chicago. He wasn’t sure he was even meant to be in that ritzy room – the Salon, Lily called it – with its couches and dancefloor and chandeliers, a grand piano in one corner and a long bar against the wall, men serving drinks and others lurking dour and muscular among the potted plants. But Emelie caught him hanging around outside as she came down in a silky dress that looked like a nightgown and jewels round her wrists; she had the longest keenest pair of legs Jiyong had ever seen.

“Go in the back and ask someone to get you some Pall Malls,” she ordered. “My trick won’t smoke anything else.” Jiyong obeyed, and half pleased, half scared silly he slipped into the Salon. He scanned the room: beautiful women in the height of fashion, men in expensive suits, and gallons of champagne. He quickly located Emelie and gave her the cigarettes, and she passed one to the large middle-aged man sitting close beside her with a smile. All the girls were smiling; Jiyong recognized that look, he’d worn it himself on occasion to keep Mr. Insull happy. It looked delighted and absolutely genuine; but Jiyong knew how professional it was.

As soon as he was done another worker spotted him and told him to place her drink order, and that set the pattern of Jiyong’s evening. In between coming and going he managed to get a feel for the flow of business: some drinks and flirtation (he guessed that was what it was, he’d never really been on the make with his patron himself) against the background of a trio of string musicians in the corner; then the worker and whoever she was with would disappear, each woman repeating the process maybe three times or more before the Salon closed at dawn. As the night went on the flirtation became more blatant as different guys came in, already tipsy, and by the small hours there was more female lace and skin on show than Jiyong had ever seen: his mom would take one look and call them all hussies. At first he was flustered, ‘cos he was a man after all and they were the very pinnacle of attractiveness; luckily he was soon too busy to even think about getting steamed up.

“Who’s the Chinese kid?” inquired a graying man with the typical ‘mogul’ moustache, who was lounging with an arm around Lily on a chaise longue. It was almost three in the morning, far later than Jiyong was used to staying up, and he was blinking sleepily as he brought the customer a glass of brandy. Lily snuggled closer to her man, cleavage pressed against his side.

“Just the new help.” Jiyong blushed, but what else was she meant to call him?

“Hmm.”

“Never mind him,” she told the client in a sultry tone that did something to Jiyong’s toes. “Let’s go upstairs.” Jiyong stepped away and tried not to stare. “Well, what would you prefer?” whispered Lily as the old man went ahead with his drink. “You want every john in the place thinking you’re open for business already?” He shook his head hurriedly. “So keep a low profile,” she advised him, tapping him sharply on the cheek. “Or that cute phiz is gonna get you some pressing invitations!” Looking around at the increasingly raucous guests, Jiyong was grateful to her: he decided he wasn’t ready to even _think_ about handling anything of the kind.

* * *

After a while he understood more about the House, at least from the workers’ perspective: its day-to-day life, its benefits and pitfalls, and its many unwritten rules – not least the hierarchy observed by everyone in the place.

The most popular woman was given the title Number One, the maids told him as he passed two of them bringing her breakfast upstairs; it meant she charged the most per hour, got the very best gifts and wardrobe and outings, and occupied the nicest suite of rooms at the top of the House. Everyone wanted the position and vied for popularity using various tactics that ranged from straight charm to sabotage. The boss liked the system ‘cos it kept everyone on their toes and making money.

Lily pointed out the current Number One shortly after he arrived, but she needn’t have bothered: Eleanor Simms (Elle from ‘Eaven, the younger would-be-witty clients called her) drew every eye in a room the moment she entered it. She was the loveliest woman Jiyong had ever seen. Later, once he’d been around long enough to get infected by the girls’ beliefs as to the vital importance of beauty, he tried to analyze it. It was weird: Eleanor _wasn’t_ beautiful like Emelie. Sure, her hair was a rippling waterfall of dark chocolate and even when bobs came into style she shifted looks successfully; her tan skin was smooth like velvet, a perfect contrast with her vivid hazel eyes and red lips. Everything about her managed to scream class and sensuality at the same time. Then again, when you really looked at her she wasn’t particularly young, and she was too short, nothing like the leggy statuesque Lily; her features weren’t quite regular and it looked like maybe she’d broken her nose as a kid; plus she had too many moles. But it didn’t seem to matter – her charm knocked ‘em down like ninepins, male and female clients both, and her place on the coveted third floor was assured.

It was a lifestyle to make anyone envious: while the rest of them were lunching on sandwiches Eleanor was munching white chocolate beignets and sabayon from hotel patisseries; everyone on the second floor shared a big bathroom (with Jiyong last in the queue ‘cos he didn’t have anyone to impress) while Eleanor luxuriated among hothouse flowers in her own private tub. This was the kinda thing Jiyong had gotten used to during his months in the apartment, and he had to admit he’d like it back.

“She’s been Number One three years, I hear,” said Lily, taking a drag on her cigarette. Jiyong wanted to try it, it looked so elegant in its holder, as did the way she held it to show off the beautiful shape of her arm. But Mr. Insull had apparently given Mrs. Moore strict instructions about tobacco and alcohol, and Jiyong wasn’t friendly enough with anyone yet to make them look past an order from the boss.

“She’s real pretty,” agreed Jiyong, pulling his legs up to lean more comfortably against the wall of the woodshed. It was drafty and Spartan but all the workers seemed to end up in here at some point, and in future months he’d learn to treat it as a tiny piece of shelter from management’s eyes.

“She’s great in the bedroom, too.”

“Oh yeah?” Why was he blushing? This was of some interest to him personally, he’d quite like to know how his own skills stacked up; but it was so embarrassing to talk about these things with women.

“You better believe it,” said Lily. “You don’t get the Number One spot on looks alone! It’s your looks that draw ‘em in,” she lectured him, “your charm that gets them to pick you, and your ‘talent’ that keeps ‘em coming back for more.” Jiyong wondered which of these qualities had got Mr. Insull interested in _him_ , and which he oughta cultivate to get back in his good books when he returned. He wasn’t sure it was his own great sexual skills that’d kept his patron on the hook all these months – dammit, why was Mr. Insull so much more complicated than any other man he’d met?

“You think she’ll hold on to it?” he asked absently. He imagined Lily would like to take a crack at the top spot herself, and she sure seemed to have what it took. Lily smiled, ever so slightly like a shark.

“Nah. She’s getting complacent, the other girls say. That’s what happens at the top if you don’t watch out: you get so confident in your own powers you stop trying.”

“And what happens then?”

“Well,” said Lily, green eyes glimmering behind her cigarette smoke, “that’s when the rest of us quit circling and go in for the kill.” Jiyong gulped and edged a little bit further away. He’d have to be careful with these women – he didn’t think he’d ever be tough enough to survive getting caught in their sights.

* * *

Mr. Insull wrote him regularly. At first the letters were cold and Jiyong only looked forward to getting them ‘cos it was his one contact with something familiar; he knew his guardian – could he still call him that? – wasn’t over his anger at being disobeyed. But as the weeks passed they grew warmer, as if Mr. Insull was traveling someplace full of sunshine. He became teacherly again, then cordial, then fond, or as fond as he was capable of being on paper. Jiyong wrote back ‘cos he figured that was why the man was taking the trouble of writing him at all: to find out what Jiyong was doing in the House and what he was thinking of the things he saw there – and through that knowledge to retain a measure of control over him. Jiyong didn’t mind anymore; he wanted Mr. Insull back too badly to resent him.

Some things he didn’t write about – he knew already what his employer would say. Mr. Insull didn’t like him excitable or emotional (unless it was to express pleasure or gratitude towards himself), he thought it showed a lack of self-discipline. That was why Jiyong didn’t mention his blue spells, his real uneasiness about his place in the House and his future; and why he didn’t mention the ghost.

“Whatcha doing, nosy?” Lily said in his ear, making him jump. He’d been standing on the second-floor landing, staring curiously up the back stairs at the third floor. Over the last few weeks he’d explored as much of the House as he could without someone more important sending him packing back to his own room; but he’d never been up to the very top.

“Nothing! Buzz off.”

“You go up there without an okay and you’re in trouble,” Lily told him, with a mischievous nudge as if to say she’d enjoy it if he did.

“‘Cos of Eleanor?” The Number One made Jiyong very uncomfortable – the look she could give you if you got in her path or if one of her clients even glanced your way!

“‘Cos of Eleanor _and_ the Number Two,” agreed Lily. “…And the ghost.” Jiyong sniggered at her.

“What?”

“In the attic between their apartments. No-one goes in there. No-one knows _what’s_ in there – only that there’s a girl.” Jiyong felt a shiver run down his back: he and his sisters believed in the supernatural without question.

“Really?” His voice dropped to a whisper of terrified respect, as if the ghost could hear him from down here on the landing. Lily grinned at him but she didn’t _look_ like she was kidding.

“Sure. They say she was someone’s mistress from back before this place was a cat-house.”

“Mr. Insull’s?!” said Jiyong, owl-eyed. The redhead snorted.

“Christ, he’s not _that_ old!” Jiyong blushed, feeling stupid.

“I mean just after the House was built. And something happened, like he locked her in there or killed her or just went back to his wife and she pined away and died.” Lily made the latter sound as if she’d never heard of anything so pathetic.

“Have you seen her?”

“She doesn’t come out – you’ll only see her if you go in that lumber room.”

“I never will!” swore Jiyong; it was uncomfortable enough living here without getting haunted into the bargain. Lily stretched, her body elongating in a way that oughta make any man’s mouth water.

“If I was you I’d worry more about Eleanor.”

“Right…” Jiyong went off to help one of the girls do her hair, wondering if he’d ever get used to such a strange, strange house.

* * *

“Well, Jiyong,” said Mrs. Moore as he stood on the carpet before her. “How’re you feeling? You’ve had a month to settle in; I guess you’ve had most of your questions answered.”

“Yes, Mrs. Moore,” said Jiyong automatically. He’d quickly learned not to be pert with her, the woman had an arm on her like his mom and wasn’t afraid to give him a clip round the ear.

“Good. The boss hoped you would.” She frowned at him. “Stand up straight, for goodness’ sake.” Jiyong obeyed, still wondering what he was doing here; he’d promised to fetch Eleanor some coffee up to her dressing room and he was sure he’d catch it if he didn’t get it to her pronto. The Number One had gone from sneering at him to barely acknowledging his existence, and he’d been hoping to take himself up another level by being useful. So much for that – he was gunna hafta stay out of her way all night. “Now, then,” said Mrs. Moore in her usual clipped tone. “I’d like to ask you something.”

“Huh?”

“Mr. Insull explained about your living here,” she went on. “You get room and board and anything necessary to your health, just as he’d want for any belonging of his.”

“Right,” agreed Jiyong, not sure how he oughta feel about her characterization of his status.

“But you want to earn money, yes?”

“Oh, yes!” he said quickly; the last time Mr. Insull had given him any scratch was right before he left for Europe and it’d been a month since Jiyong sent cash home. He’d written a vague letter to his mom and passed it to Emelie to take to the post, but he didn’t wanna make her come out and meet him without being able to give her something meaningful. “Please.”

“The boss wanted us to hold off until you knew what’s what around here – so you’d really understand what you’re being asked.”

“What _am_ I being asked?”

“You’ve caught a few eyes in the Salon.” Mrs. Moore’s face made it clear she had her own thoughts on that, but she wasn’t about to share them with Jiyong. “Even though you’re not officially on display. And I’ve had some inquiries.”

“…About _me_?”

“Yes,” she said bluntly, and then: “Do you want to?”

“Do…what, exactly?”

“Sell your body – and get paid at last.”

Jiyong shivered, suddenly as cold and scared as he’d been that very first night in the hotel bathroom. Why he should be scared he wasn’t sure; he knew what the Madam was asking and he’d thought about what might happen if she did – if it turned out this was what Mr. Insull intended for him. Well, apparently it was. Jiyong experienced a quick, bitter pang of regret that his behavior had brought his guardian to this decision, mixed in with some fury at Mr. Insull for being so maniacal about control that all it took was one broken rule for him to change Jiyong’s entire life. But it was short-lived, at least for now.

“We’d vet your clients carefully,” Mrs. Moore cajoled him. “That’s the boss’s instructions too.” Jiyong wondered who they were, which of the dozens of men who frequented the Salon desired his body over the array of spectacular women around him. He didn’t believe any of them would take as good care with him as Mr. Insull. Then he thought of the money, and the idea of finally having some status in this place – and he supposed if it was _only_ his body he was selling then he might as well at least try it; after all, he’d bargained away his innocence a long time ago.

“…Okay,” he told Mrs. Moore, just as he’d agreed to Mr. Insull’s proposition all those months before. She nodded briskly.

“Good. Tomorrow night.” That made him catch his breath. “We’ll start you out easy.” Jiyong swallowed; he really hoped so.

* * *

After his first customer he cried as if he’d gone back to the very beginning. He didn’t know why, in the end it hadn’t been difficult, the guy was less particular than Mr. Insull and all he’d had to do to please him was lie on his back and smile – no flirtation, no sophisticated conversation. Perhaps it was not knowing anything about him that’d made Jiyong feel like that dumb inexperienced kid again.

“If you keep it up,” warned Lily, who’d heard him from her room next door, “they’ll match you with the tricks who _like_ their partners crying – and believe me, that’s not gonna do you any good.” Jiyong nodded, wiped his nose, and wondered how he could help it. But to his relief, after another month or so it got easier and he overcame the urge to burst into tears and beg Mrs. Moore to let him give up. He wanted the wages too bad.

He wasn’t comfortable – he was never that, he was too confused by the variety of customers he had to deal with. Yeah, they were all rich and paying good money for him, and so had a fair amount of superiority and complacency to bring to the bedroom. But then he had to figure out what each one _wanted_ : some of them were creeps who liked his youth and obviously preferred him to act all shy and virginal – fine, he was so nervous every time it was easy to pretend; others just wanted to try out a guy and expected him to be more masculine and assertive. Some of them didn’t care a cent whether he was enjoying himself, and others got offended if he _wasn’t_ , as if it somehow insulted their manhood; unfortunately, being a boy it was much harder for Jiyong to fake pleasure than for the women in the House. And unfortunately almost none of his customers – tricks, the girls called them – had the ability to actually please him. Thus his career as a prostitute seemed set to be a great deal less pleasant than his career as a mistress.

* * *

Jiyong wasn’t meant to spend time on the make in the Salon like the other workers; Mrs. Moore thought it looked vulgar to have someone so young act so forward. So he didn’t normally get to talk with his tricks ‘til he came to fetch them and take them upstairs, and sometimes that put him at a disadvantage. Sure, a few of them he’d met when he first started living at the House and was doing chores – a couple were regulars of the other girls, and Jiyong was real anxious that if those men liked him they might start to ask for him more often: not that he minded the money, but he worried about his colleagues’ payback. So far it was just pranks like pinching his clothes or hiding really perverted sexual aids in his bed right before he brought a client up, but who knew how far it might go if one of ‘em got spiteful?

His final trick of the night was a man he didn’t know, but he’d seen him once or twice in the Salon and he seemed fine, some old money type from the South. He was sorta good-looking, actually. Jiyong had taken a bath after his previous client while a maid remade the bed, and he went downstairs feeling clean and reasonably prepared. Mrs. Moore brought the guy, a Mr. Hamilton, to him, and Jiyong gave him a shy smile; he was tall, and yes, handsome – it made a nice change.

“What’s your name, sweetheart?”

“Jiyong.”

“Japanese?” Jiyong shrugged noncommittally, ‘cos what did it matter? The tricks didn’t care and wouldn’t remember, even Mrs. Moore thought he was Chinese. “They say Japanese women are the very best,” stated Mr. Hamilton. His hand closed gently around Jiyong’s wrist. After putting these two things together Jiyong concluded this was one of those men who liked their partner pliant and submissive; fine, he could do that.

He led his client upstairs (actually it was more like the other way around, Jiyong merely pointing him in the direction of his room), anxious ‘cos this trick was new but fairly confident he’d be able to please him and endure the next hour without difficulty. Once the door was closed firmly behind them he glanced up at Mr. Hamilton – and felt a tingle at the back of his neck where the hairs were suddenly standing on end. He didn’t know exactly what it was: a new tone in the man’s smile, perhaps; but some instinct deep inside him was telling him urgently that something was wrong! He drew back and the grip on his wrist tightened ‘til his bones creaked. His rich client leaned down towards him and smiled wider.

“Let’s you and me have some fun.”

As soon as the man was done and out of the room Jiyong threw his clothes on, hardly knowing what was what and with every limb trembling so hard he could scarcely button his coat. He was sore all over, but worse than the pain was the almost blind panic prompted by an instinctive desire to simply _get away_ – how and where he didn’t know, only that he wasn’t safe here, and if that man came back he –

Jiyong shook his head to stop that thought forming. Quickly he filled his pockets with all the cash he hadn’t sent his mom, and the small but saleable presents from his early tricks – everything else he could leave behind, he just had to get outta here before the maid came up to change the sheets and found him quivering like a rabbit. He stuck his head out, and with a wild glance up and down the corridor slipped through the door and skulked along to the servants’ staircase; his legs were weak but he couldn’t afford the time to regroup! He was about to head downward when he heard the sound of footsteps on the stairs; in a moment of illogical terror he rushed in the other direction and flew down the main staircase, no longer caring about stealth, just needing to _go_. At the bottom he almost ran into one of the barmen about to ascend with an ice bucket and champagne. Jiyong faltered but didn’t stop, and with the astonished employee left behind him he dragged the heavy front door open and escaped into the night.

He ran down Prairie ‘til he couldn’t run anymore; only when he slowed, breath rasping in his throat, did he begin to think again – and as soon as started thinking the tears came. Where could he go? he forced himself to ask. Who in this sick goddamn city would help him – who could keep him safe?! There was only one place in all of Chicago, wasn’t there? So he headed on jelly legs and weeping like an imbecile to the nearest bus station, and caught the night omnibus home.

Jiyong had time to think on his way of what the hell he could say to make his father take him back; perhaps his fear itself would convince his parent. Or maybe he could somehow catch his mom’s attention and at least get some advice about what to do; he needed someone else’s cool head right now. He shifted in his seat, wincing, he couldn’t find any way to sit that didn’t sting him somewhere, and he was glad to finally exit the ‘bus and stumble through the tenements toward his family’s house. There was Harrison Street at last! His parents lived just a little way off it. Jiyong turned with both relief and huge apprehension into the dark side road – and as he rounded the corner someone grabbed him.

“Get _off me…_!” cried Jiyong in pure fright as a strong hand caught him by the scruff of the neck and began to drag him back towards Harrison Street. His home was so close he could almost touch it! He struggled like he’d never struggled before, could see the nighttime denizens of the neighborhood staring as they passed, even faces he knew; but not one of them stopped.

“Quit it, willya?” Jiyong’s captor quickly grew tired of his flailing and clawing; he picked Jiyong up bodily, threw him over his shoulder, and strode on. All Jiyong could see was his own street, rapidly growing distant. Then the big man holding him turned and set him down in the open doorway of a smart town car. “In you go. No, in!” He pushed Jiyong inside and followed him, slamming the door. “Got him,” he told the driver. “Now for chrissakes let’s get back – I’m ready to drop.”

As the car purred away Jiyong scrambled into the corner and stared at his retriever. Now he could see him properly he recognized him: it was one of the looming besuited guys who spent their evenings at the House; ‘enforcers’, Lily called them, there to ensure good behavior and assist dead-drunk revelers to their cars. Briefly he wondered how they’d known where to find him, before it dawned on him that of course Mr. Insull knew his parents’ address – he’d been the one to send the letters. He must’ve told Thompson or Mrs. Moore, and of course Jiyong was fucking stupid enough to run away in the most obvious direction possible. He huddled against the car’s soft cushions and cried.

“All right,” said Mrs. Moore, looking both tired and absolutely ready to thrash him. “Explain yourself.”

“I’m not free to go where I please?” Jiyong shot back defiantly; he’d cried all his tears out on the way back, and could face her now like a grown-up.

“Of course not! Well?” she demanded. “Don’t you have some excuse? You can bet I’ve got the boss’s permission to drag you back into line!” Jiyong pursed his lips and silently rolled up his sleeves, exposing the burns and abrasions from the curtain cords. Her jaw went tight for a moment and she turned almost scarlet; why, thought Jiyong? What orders had Mr. Insull given her regarding his safety? So much for ‘vetting’ his clients, anyway! “Why didn’t you scream, you little fool?” Mrs. Moore exclaimed. “Someone will always hear you.”

“I couldn’t.” He’d tried, but for whatever reason nothing had come out – as if he’d forgotten how in both his languages.

“…All right,” she said at last. “We’ll handle this.”

“Mr. Hamilton won’t come back for me?” he pleaded in a whisper. Her lips thinned.

“ _No_.” Oh, he hoped she was gunna get in trouble! He hoped Mr. Insull would fall on the lot of ‘em like the wrath of God when he got back! Only…what if he didn’t care? Jiyong was by no means confident of his patron’s protection anymore, but surely… “Come along!” snapped the Madam, startling Jiyong outta his frightened reverie as she grabbed his ear.

“Ow!” She yanked on it and he had to follow her. Hadn’t he been hurt enough tonight? he wondered miserably as she led him up to his room – he didn’t wanna go back in but she had a tight grip on him.

“Now you just think about how you handled yourself,” said Mrs. Moore with a glare for him as she deposited him on his bed. “Especially the disrespect it shows your guardian.”

“What guardian?” retorted Jiyong bitterly; he felt as alone and unprotected as he had ever been. Mrs. Moore clicked her tongue at him in disgust and whisked outta the room. Jiyong heard the snap of a key and realized these doors did lock after all – and that he was now literally a prisoner.

* * *

He stayed in that room more than three weeks, didn’t see a soul but the House doctor who came to give the workers their regular check-up, and the stout maid who brought him his meals and washing things and emptied the chamber pot – they wouldn’t even let him use the bathroom! The door was locked carefully, the decorative bars on the windows not there merely to prevent burglaries; Jiyong was stuck. After three days he decided he’d almost prefer a whipping, as his burns and bruises healed. After a week he wished he’d never tried to run at all. The boredom was stifling, as was the fear that, in spite of Mrs. Moore’s word, that door might open and admit Mr. Hamilton or something even worse.

“You alive in there?” Lily sometimes called through the wall.

“Come talk to me!” Jiyong would beg; he was sure she could find a key if she wanted.

“No way! My trick’s taking me to the vaudeville, you think I’m gonna risk it to entertain _you_?”

“…I’m going mad,” said Jiyong.

“Serves you right.”

He wondered if the others knew what’d happened to him; perhaps they were used to that kinda thing, or at least knew enough to prepare for it. Perhaps there were signs he oughta have noticed…but maybe Mr. Hamilton’s dark side was aimed strictly at boys; or maybe the Southerner felt Jiyong’s skin made him unworthy of even basic respect. Jiyong sighed as he heard Lily’s high heels trip softly down the carpeted hall, on her way to fun and freedom and money. He really thought he might go crazy; but he endured it, like so much else in his life, because he had no choice.

And in the fourth week Mr. Insull came home.

* * *

He knew something had happened when one of the enforcers came and unlocked his door, throwing it wide open. He looked up from his wing chair, for a second petrified by the hulking shape in the doorway. Then the enforcer jerked his thumb towards the street and said the sweetest words Jiyong had ever heard:

“Boss is back – he’s asking for ya.” Jiyong was on his feet in an instant, shoving past the big man and down the hallway, descending the stairs in dangerous leaps as if he was running away all over again; and there in the entrance hall was Mr. Insull handing his coat and valise to a maid. With an incoherent cry of relief Jiyong crashed into his keeper and threw both arms round his waist, burrowing against Mr. Insull’s ample form as if the man was his own father. For a moment there was silence, just an odd tableau in that beautiful foyer: the tycoon and the boy, Mrs. Moore watching them stonily and a few bewildered servants pretending not to stare.

“Well, how’s Jiyong?” said Mr. Insull at last, and returned the hug. “My boy.” Jiyong felt a curtain of warmth envelop him, followed by a coverlet of safety. He didn’t know why: he did not love Mr. Insull – at least, not in any way he recognized. The man had brought him here, after all, and left him. So why was Jiyong so truly overjoyed to see him?

“ _Sir_ ,” was all he could manage; he was on the verge of tears, but for once his guardian seemed not to mind this uncouth display of emotion – he simply held Jiyong tighter.

“Very well; we’ll take some refreshments, I think,” he said at last. Jiyong realized Mr. Insull was addressing the Madam. And then, ominously: “You can tell me the rest later. For now…” He squeezed Jiyong, then allowed him to grasp his sleeve and led him past the Salon into the comfortable sunroom; there were a few workers obviously eavesdropping on their boss’s return, but they whisked themselves outta sight leaving the two of them alone. Jiyong couldn’t stop peering up at him, the familiar moustache jaunty as when he was in his very best humor.

Mr. Insull took a seat on the nicest couch by the fire and observed Jiyong intently ‘til a maid had brought tea. Then he _smiled_.

“Well, my darling, what have you been getting up to _this_ time?” Jiyong looked down at him uncertainly; Mr. Insull reached forward and pulled him into his lap. This affectionate mood was quite uncharacteristic in his keeper, especially when he clearly knew Jiyong had had to be punished. Maybe his business trip had been more of a rejuvenating holiday; or maybe…maybe he’d missed him.

“…I went out,” Jiyong confessed. “And didn’t tell anyone.” He didn’t say he’d been trying to run away – he didn’t think that would be wise _at all_ , not while his patron was in such a good mood; no doubt Mrs. Moore would set him straight, but for now Jiyong wanted to bask in this sweetness. Mr. Insull sighed, his moustache turning grave. “I needed to see my mom,” Jiyong explained. Not that he’d made it that far.

“Mrs. Moore was quite right to lock you up, then,” the older man said calmly; but he gave Jiyong another squeeze. “I have told you before what the rules are: I won’t have you leaving without telling me.”

“But you weren’t here, Sir! And I was _scared_.”

“Then Mrs. Moore or Mr. Thompson.” Mr. Insull prodded him in the chest with a stern finger. “You may visit with your mother if you wish; but you will be escorted, for your own welfare.” Jiyong huffed a bit: obviously his patron was considering his own possessive peace of mind more than the safety of his charge.

“You mean I’m never gunna be free,” he summarized. Mr. Insull thought about this.

“…No, my boy,” he replied fondly, and drew Jiyong against him. “All in all, I think I would prefer it if you’re not.” Jiyong knew he oughta be angry at that; and he would be, later. But he was somehow so glad right now to have his owner back that he sank willingly and even gratefully into the embrace.

* * *

Later they slept together: no clients for Jiyong tonight. He came to realize that working in the House these last months had taught him to appreciate Mr. Insull in various ways he hadn’t before – not least in the bedroom. He’d never have thought it, but after night upon night of mediocre or painful sex it was a positive relief to return to his keeper, who was slow and careful. True, Mr. Insull wasn’t always concerned with pleasing Jiyong; it depended on his mood and how much time he had. But at least when he felt like it he _could_ please him. That, Jiyong was learning, was a rare trait. He was happy to have it back, and had a sudden fierce wish for his body to belong solely to Mr. Insull once more. Wouldn’t the older man want that too?

“Please, Sir,” said Jiyong softly, across the expanse of bed between them. It was the first time it’d been filled with anyone after the sex was over and done, but it was so big it felt like Mr. Insull was in the next room. He shuffled over unasked ‘til he could curl close to his owner’s side. “…Can’t you take me back to the other place?” He paused, then added: “I was happy there with you.” He hadn’t really understood that at the time, absorbed as he’d been with his own isolation, but in hindsight it seemed obvious. Mr. Insull was quiet for a minute.

“Not at the moment,” he said eventually, as Jiyong had somehow known he would. Had the man found someone else to fill his spot already? Surely not, he’d only just got back from Europe. Then had Jiyong’s charms faded that fast, or was Mr. Insull still rankling over his bad behavior? Or perhaps his wife had gotten even more jealous, or… “I need to spend more time at home,” explained the older man. “A family matter.” Oh, that hurt, the thought of that, though Jiyong couldn’t tell if the sting was more resentment or envy. “And I don’t like to leave you alone.”

“…Then let _me_ go home.” He knew it was idiotic even as he said it.

“Jiyong.” Mr. Insull rarely used his name; when he did it was either a treat or a stark warning. “You know you can’t,” his keeper reminded him, reaching out in the dimness to calmly stroke the hair falling into his face. Jiyong sniffed and wriggled closer. “Do you truly hate it here?” asked Mr. Insull.

“I didn’t,” said Jiyong hesitantly. He had a brief flashback to what had happened, and winced. “Not ‘til…”

“That will _not_ occur again,” Mr. Insull promised; he’d been speaking with Mrs. Moore, and afterwards had been even gentler with Jiyong. “Not unless you decide in future that you’re able to take on more specialized work – for which you may charge through the nose.” He sighed. “It should never have happened; if I’d been taking proper care of this place it would not have.” Jiyong guessed he’d never had all that much interest in the House except as a minor sideline to his business empire, or maybe as a kinda dolls-house he only occasionally thought to play with. “But from now on you’ll be protected, I assure you.”

“Well…”

“Is it unbearable?” Jiyong shook his head. “Do you not like the money?” Jiyong could hardly complain about that, either: he’d been able to send his mom more than four hundred dollars over the last few months even with just a couple of customers a day; they’d be able to move house soon! He knew that with any normal job he could never, _ever_ have come close to that. “Well, then,” said Mr. Insull, as if that settled it. But in a moment his voice turned fond, or as much as Jiyong had ever heard it. “Won’t you try, Jiyong?” he asked. His thumb smoothed along the boy’s cheek. “Just for a while. Just for me.” And before he could think it through or properly interpret that voice, Jiyong heard himself saying:

“Yes.” Mr. Insull grunted in satisfaction and patted his head.

“You’re a good boy.”

Jiyong went to sleep feeling warm all over.

* * *

Jiyong wondered if Mr. Insull meant it as a kindness when soon after his return he advised Mrs. Moore to let him accept female customers. Whether he meant it or not, Jiyong appreciated it: it was a whole new world. They had very few women as clients, but the ones they did have weren’t afraid to experiment. His first was a prettyish lady in her thirties, widowed and independently wealthy. She’d known exactly what she was doing, which was just as well ‘cos Jiyong was clueless. It was the first time he’d stripped in front of a brand-new trick without feeling that twinge of fear; sure, he’d been nervous about pleasing her, but he wasn’t afraid of the woman herself. It’d been perplexing but certainly interesting.

After that Jiyong bribed a couple of the girls with gifts from his customers to give him a crash course in how to please a woman. It was so complicated! They’d laughed at him but he was persistent; and once he’d gotten good at it they quit laughing and made the most of it, at least ‘til Mrs. Moore decided they were having _too_ much fun and put a stop to it. Still, Jiyong had gained a skill set and a new customer base, and seeing him busy and uncomplaining pleased Mr. Insull, who rewarded him liberally with gifts and attention. Jiyong didn’t forget the awful experience that had made him try and run away; but he could put it in perspective now, and the next time he had to deal with an unpleasant or dangerous trick he knew he’d handle it better.

There was still discomfort, of course, inside the bedroom and out of it. He put off one painful task as long as he could, but his sense of filial duty made it inevitable. He had to tell his mom: at least about the change in his address and living situation, and where the extra money was coming from. And when he was in front of her, having been given permission by Mr. Insull to go out for the afternoon and she having left work early so his dad wouldn’t twig…he couldn’t lie to her. So everything came out. Neither of them said the word ‘prostitute’, but they both knew this was truly his reality now – and that there could never be a return to their old life. When his mother began to cry silently in the café in front of him Jiyong felt as if something was squeezing him around the heart; and he didn’t know what it would take for it to swell to its full size again. It was as if there were bars tight around it.

“What’ll become of you?” his mom said despairingly in Korean. “How can you ever get married now? Have children?! Have you even thought about…about what you’re giving up?”

“…No.” What fourteen-year-old boy imagined such things? Even before all this Jiyong hadn’t had any leisure to dream such a sweet dream. “And it won’t do any good now. Mom…Mom, _please_ calm down, I’ll be fine!” His mother reached across and cupped his cheek, ignoring the sneaky looks the other diners were aiming at them.

“You’ve done all this to help us,” she murmured. “You’ve changed your sisters’ lives, darling, and we’re so grateful. But I want you to think about _yourself_ , too. Can you promise me that?” Jiyong smiled at her – the first smile he’d ever given her that didn’t feel quite real.

“I promise to think about myself.” He’d try to be more selfish, if that was what she needed; but he knew how hard it would be to ever put himself first.

* * *

Life seemed to settle down after that, and if it wasn’t the happy family idyll that was now beyond his reach at least it wasn’t boring; there was still too much to learn. Jiyong resolved to become as good at his new profession as he possibly could be: both to get rich and to please Mr. Insull – to make up for the times he’d disobeyed him in the past and was bound to in the future. It was more than a year now since he’d met his keeper and most days he didn’t regret it, even when Mr. Insull’s strict rules drove him mad: he simply broke them and took his punishment. Every time he was caught escaping through an unguarded door he’d be locked up and frequently spanked – which was fine when it came from Mr. Insull, pretty bad when it was Mrs. Moore – but he couldn’t help himself: he wanted at least a taste of real life.

As he approached fifteen he noticed there was a lotta buzz in the already raucous city; it’d been going on for weeks now, even among the nobby House clientele, but today when Jiyong snuck out to meet Lizzie and treat her to a Tom Mix flick just before his birthday he could see the snowy neighborhoods were seething with people. He couldn’t quite tell if they were angry, if this was gunna explode into another riot, or if they were gearing up for a massive party.

“They’re outlawing liquor sales,” one of the younger maids had told him. “They decided it back in October but tomorrow’s the day it kicks in!”

“How come?” asked Jiyong in a rather muffled voice; he’d just got back from a terrifying trip to the dentist with Mrs. Moore, and his jaw still ached. Of course neither his parents nor Mr. Insull had ever allowed him to drink, but he’d seen his dad take a nip every so often: it seemed to help with his leg, if not his temper. Jiyong wondered if it would’ve helped with the luxurious but horrific experience of having his teeth very vigorously checked.

“Dunno. Politicians don’t think like normal people.”

On his way home Jiyong noted people carousing right out in the street; they appeared pretty jolly about the whole thing – he didn’t have a single insult hurled at him about his race, which was a rarity, anyway.

“What’s this thing everyone’s talking about?” he asked Mr. Insull the next day when he came to spend the evening, bringing flowers and cake and presents. “Some new law?” The older man looked pleased.

“Oh, you’ve been reading the paper, have you?” Jiyong nodded, ‘cos he couldn’t exactly say he’d seen it while out roaming the streets – he didn’t fancy being shut in his room on his birthday. Mr. Insull gave him a half-smile; he was stroking Jiyong’s hair and it felt kinda nice, though Jiyong still wasn’t quite used to it: his keeper had never been much of a touchy-feely person outside the bedroom, but since he’d returned from Europe in a good mood he seemed to like having Jiyong near him even more than before he’d left – when he’d been so antisocial and strange. The only difference was that this time Jiyong appreciated it. Maybe it was ‘cos they met less often these days. “It’s called the ‘Volstead Act’,” Mr. Insull informed the boy. Jiyong shrugged; that meant nothing. “The Government intends to stop the manufacture and sale of alcohol,” his patron explained.

“Why, though?” Mr. Insull looked thoughtful.

“Many believe it makes men act as less than men: that it impedes their work, impairs their faculties, and is the cause of much suffering in women and children.” He raised an eyebrow at Jiyong.

“It does?” said Jiyong, who didn’t have a more intelligent reply: visitors to the House often got so blotto they couldn’t even get it up, but he didn’t regard _that_ as much of a hardship. As far as he was concerned his tricks were largely animals in evening dress whether they were hammered or not.

“I was raised to think so.” Jiyong remembered his dad telling him Mr. Insull was a puritan; perhaps this was what he’d meant. “Although there are certain aspects of my business that will definitely _not_ benefit from the curtailment of liquor sales.” He frowned a bit. Yeah, Jiyong just bet he was worried: what was a whorehouse without spirits?

“Is it gunna be a problem, then?” Mr. Insull patted his head, and a glint appeared in his eye.

“I doubt it. I think we shall see that the citizens of Chicago are resourceful enough to find many imaginative ways to get what they want.”

“And you’ll get what _you_ want,” predicted Jiyong.

“Oh, yes. Believe me.”

“How?” he asked, and Mr. Insull sighed.

“We shall have to wait and see.”

* * *

If the Government thought Prohibition was gunna quieten down Chicago, observed Jiyong to himself, they must be dumber than he’d thought. Over the next few months the nightlife of the city was roaring harder than ever, and the fact that liquor was outlawed only made it more exciting. The Italian and Irish gangs thrived on this new business; respectable housewives were suddenly cooking up alcohol in their bathtubs; women were going to the new illicit ‘speakeasies’ without chaperones and smoking just like their boyfriends. And the debaucheries of the House continued by virtue of cellars crammed with expensive liquor.

“You see?” Mr. Insull told him, looking both disapproving and pleased as a group made up of the Mayor and his cronies popped a bottle of champagne, laughing uproariously at the wasted bubbles. “When men have a will to do something they always find a way – and I have rarely seen their will more concentrated than in the pursuit of spirits.” The group of politicians beckoned him over with exaggerated gestures. Mr. Insull sighed, but Jiyong knew he was pragmatic enough to play the diplomat when he had to; he led his charge over to the party.

“Here,” said one, thrusting a glass of champagne at Jiyong. He couldn’t tell if these guys were being friendly or teasing him – he’d learned there were many men who viewed his services with disgust, veiled or open, even if they didn’t dare say anything about him to Mr. Insull’s face. He glanced at his patron. After a moment’s reflection Mr. Insull nodded, much to Jiyong’s surprise: was he finally allowing that Jiyong was practically an adult? The wine was…not exactly delicious but exciting, Jiyong liked anything with bubbles. After a glass he was giggling and Mr. Insull looked quite charmed. No wonder people were doing everything they could to get around Prohibition! thought Jiyong tipsily; it felt _good_.

Of course, this didn’t mean Mr. Insull was gunna let Jiyong become a party animal – not if he had his way, which he almost invariably did. The bartenders all had instructions that Jiyong was to be allowed one small drink per client, and if it was one of the new cocktails it was to be half strength. In every other respect he seemed to wish Jiyong to live quietly, and to continue improving his mind in the direction Mr. Insull wanted it formed. Jiyong didn’t mind educating himself a bit ‘cos in future it might be good for business to be able to hold a halfway informed conversation. Some of the House workers took newspapers every day, others studied politics or finance or whatever else was likely to please their worldly clients. That stuff put Jiyong to sleep, but as he couldn’t spend all his afternoons sneaking out or practicing makeup in the bathroom – he figured one day he might be judged grown-up enough to use it – he had to do _something_ to entertain himself.

Everyone in the House who could read amused themselves with novels; not very edifying, according to Jiyong’s father and his childhood priest, but Jiyong was learning to take the opinions of the very religious with a large pinch of salt. He got a taste for the racy genre of horror: from the novelettes of the last century to the pulp magazines the under-cook read, they were short and simple and titillating. Jiyong spent many midday sessions tucked under his covers shuddering through _Carmilla_ and _The Monk_ – they were pretty saucy, and at the same time scared the hell outta him.

Mr. Insull thought they were trash; he liked _moral_ stories. Jiyong remembered how he’d filled the apartment with wholesome tales for good children when he’d been teaching him to read. In hindsight that seemed pretty weird, given the career path his keeper had set him upon; but there was never any understanding Mr. Insull. Still, the man presented him with a couple of more edifying novels and requested him to lay off the others. With the aid of a dictionary Jiyong ploughed his way through _Vanity Fair_ [7], and in the intelligent, amoral social climber Becky found someone to admire. He didn’t think that was exactly what Mr. Insull was hoping for when he gave it him; but the more time Jiyong spent without his employer’s daily company and guidance the more his own thoughts flourished.

Jiyong found that what he mostly craved these days was music. Sure, they had it every night, refined classical stuff that pleased the educated customers. It didn’t excite him, though, and he knew the other girls felt the same. His new lifestyle gave him free time and good health and he was itching to dance – something he’d never had a thought for when he was a kid, harassed to even make a buck – but waltzing was _too_ tedious. He’d heard from his colleagues about the wild parties some of them got taken to out in the city; he wanted that too! But if he couldn’t have it, at _least_ music. Mr. Insull had told Jiyong he’d lately joined the board of the Marconi Company and that he meant to set up his own public radio station as soon as possible. Jiyong didn’t really understand radio, he thought it was just some kinda doohickey they’d used in the War; but Mr. Insull, enthused enough to crack a smile, told him it could someday bring live music into every home that bought an electric ‘set’.

“What’ll you play?” inquired Jiyong, when his patron told him he hoped to make their first broadcast as early as the following year. He might’ve known this was all so the man could hawk more home appliances.

“Opera.” Jiyong sighed to himself – what a waste! He wanted something to make his toes tap.[8]

He was in the Salon half-heartedly reading his book the next day when the new girl, Queenie, came in. She didn’t see him, he was hidden by the high wings of the chair in which he was curled. He watched idly as she sat herself at the piano; she lifted the lid and sighed to herself. Jiyong recognized that sigh: every worker in the House made a similar sound on the regular, and being new was a tough experience. He hoped she’d get used to things quick, it was kinda depressing when they had a fast turnaround. Anyway, he wanted to get to know her – color didn’t matter so much in here, other than in terms of the customers’ personal tastes, but it was nice to see another face that wasn’t white.

As soon as Queenie began to play the piano Jiyong felt himself smiling uncontrollably: this was _jazz_ , he knew it, and it immediately woke up something within him that couldn’t be stirred by Mr. Insull’s quartets. And when she started singing he actually shivered: ahh, this music was _alive_! He got up and padded towards her like she was the Pied Piper. Queenie jumped a bit when she noticed him and laughed breathlessly.

“Don’t stop!” begged Jiyong. “It’s terrific!” The young woman smiled at him and resumed playing. Jiyong crept up beside her and watched her hands move over the keys. Later he would learn these songs well enough to sing them – he’d learn he _could_ sing. He’d learn to dance, even how to write some songs himself with the unlikely accompaniment of Lily. But right now he simply listened, and for a short while felt young and irresponsible. It was the most fun he’d had in ages.

* * *

Jiyong got an inch or so taller, and as he grew so did his beauty. He’d never been able to understand when he was younger exactly what Mr. Insull found so attractive in him – attractive enough to make him abandon his taste for accomplished ladies and learn how to deal with a street brat. Now, though, Jiyong had been in the House more than a year, and he’d learned to be vain. It was one of the key concerns of every woman who lived under its roof and wanted to make money: am I beautiful? Appealing? How can I make myself more so? Jiyong hadn’t yet joined the constant race to climb to Number One, but he saw it every day; now more than ever since Eleanor had left the House (not on her ass, much to Lily’s disappointment, but to become the exclusive mistress of an oil baron from Texas). He came to realize how important looks were to an ambitious whore – yeah, that was what he was, he could say the word now and not feel resentful – and was delighted when his childish features began to refine themselves into something lovely.

The steep climb in his beauty meant business: he was getting more and more customers, even if some of ‘em wouldn’t admit to it in the Salon – and although his popularity made spending time with his family even harder, he was willing to sacrifice that for their wellbeing. One day, he thought, they would probably forget to miss him altogether; and perhaps that was for the best.

By the time he was sixteen Jiyong knew it all (or so he thought): how to handle men with tiny cocks and big ones, young and middle-aged and elderly. He’d learned there were guys who liked you submissive or dominant, playful or pure, top or bottom. A lot of the men had a love of control in one way or another: some wanted you meek and perfectly obedient, while others liked when you misbehaved so they could have the pleasure of bringing you back into line. Sometimes he wondered which kind Mr. Insull was – Jiyong had certainly tested him in the past and been punished, but it was difficult to say if his keeper got any satisfaction outta it. He seemed to approve of the new things Jiyong had learned in the House, but it was so hard to tell; after more than two years Jiyong hadn’t figured out exactly what made Mr. Insull tick. Any other man, though? It was so simple to gauge the character they wished him to perform. All in all Jiyong got used to playing so many roles he reckoned he might take up as a Hollywood actor.

Most of all he learned to channel his love into money and fun; ‘cos he was no longer sure anyone else needed it.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> 7When his Insull’s mansion was seized and its contents sold off after he went bankrupt, it included several valuable first editions, one of which was _Vanity Fair_ (1848) by Thackeray. This is also one of my favourite satirical novels in the world, ever :)[return to text]  
> 
> 
> 8Insull did own one of the first radio stations and he did mainly want it to play opera ^^;[return to text]  
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> Well, what do you think of Ji's transition? Next time he'll have a bit more strife in terms of his personal relationship with Insull (he wasn't around too much in this chapter). Only one more chapter to go! This one's gone fast...


	4. Liberty Bell

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> In which Jiyong finally meets the second man who'll change his life - for the better.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Back on schedule after my Christmas GTOP fic last week (check it out if you want some fluff XD). And final chapter!

“You are becoming rather popular,” commented Mr. Insull in a slightly waspish tone as he placed both arms round Jiyong, who snuggled against him obligingly and gave him a smile of welcome. “It’s getting more and more difficult to rearrange your schedule.”

“If we knew when you were coming,” Jiyong replied with just a fraction of the pout his other tricks liked so much, “Mrs. Moore could take care to keep that evening free every week…or, y’know, whenever.” It seemed to him that the visits had been slightly less than regular lately; his patron must be in the middle of some new business venture that was keeping him tied up at night. He’d never thought he’d miss the man being so overbearing, but he had to admit some days he kinda wished he _would_ come.

“I told you I’ve been in England.”

“Advising some bigwig, right?” Mr. Insull’s moustache did the thing that said he wasn’t sure whether to be exasperated or entertained.

“Secretary of State Winston Churchill? Yes.”

“Huh,” said Jiyong, who wouldn’t really have cared if his boss had been meeting the President (which he had – two of ‘em). “You’d’ve had more fun here, though!”

“Mm.” Mr. Insull produced a jeweler’s case from his pocket and handed it to Jiyong. “A gift from London, with my apologies.” Jiyong opened the box eagerly and found a pair of lovely silver and sapphire earrings in the smart new Deco style, geometric and flawless; Mrs. Moore had pierced his ears for him a couple of months ago and his keeper had of course noticed his increasing interest in jewels. “Perhaps it’s all to the good,” continued Mr. Insull. “I see you are gaining some success; far be it from me to prevent you making money with my presence.” It was true, Jiyong _was_ putting a lotta effort into upping his income these days: he’d managed to get his family moved to a pleasant street near Cermack Avenue and the new Chinatown, but he wanted Dami and Soomin to finish their education at a good private school like the one Marvin and May had attended – and those places were _wicked_ expensive. All the same, he slid his hands along Mr. Insull’s collar and began to affectionately undo his necktie.

“You can interrupt whenever you like, Sir!” Especially if he was gunna come bearing gifts. The older man’s moustache twitched cheerfully.

“Very magnanimous of you. Well, Jiyong,” he continued, fingers slipping surely down the silk back of the boy’s new kimono to the knot of his sash, “we shall see. I am a great supporter of ambition, as you know – and I shan’t get in the way of your progress.” Jiyong kissed him and allowed himself to be guided to the bed. It was kind of his patron to be so easy-going, and rare to find a man without the inconvenient flaw of jealousy that was surely natural when your partner was a prostitute – and Jiyong was gunna show Mr. Insull he appreciated it. At length.

* * *

The weeks went by and Jiyong did indeed see his own popularity grow: word got around the circles of the wealthy, it seemed, and he made sure his tricks had only good things to say about his skills and charm. Even with the small percentage of the charge he actually saw, he was making more than three hundred dollars a month! His sisters had enrolled in the fancy girls’ academy, his mother reported by letter, and she’d got a nice job making Korean treats in an upmarket Chinese store; she’d even been able to cut her work hours down to spend more time caring for his father. Jiyong sighed at that – he wished she wouldn’t feel the need to work at all – but was glad things were going well. Even though he barely got to see any of them these days their happiness made _him_ happy.

As the season changed, however, he gradually began to notice that Mr. Insull’s visits had become yet more sporadic; and for some reason – he couldn’t quite put his finger on why – it started to bug him. Yeah, his keeper had said he’d step back and watch his young charge’s career blossom; but Jiyong found that some niggling, ungrateful part of him was coming to interpret his absence as _neglect_.

“Can’t you come this week?” he asked peevishly when Mr. Insull telephoned to inquire after him. “You could see for yourself.”

“Unfortunately I have a series of engagements,” came his benefactor’s tinny voice. “I shall bring you something pretty the next time. Don’t forget to read your book – I’ll be asking you about it.” Jiyong sighed as Mr. Insull told him goodbye and the receiver clicked to end the call. He supposed it was a mixed blessing. For a moment he wondered if this was how Mrs. Insull felt all the time; sure, he’d heard _she_ was the one who’d kicked her husband outta bed years ago, but still… For the first time in forever Jiyong was finding his patron’s absence more of a bother than a freedom.

* * *

Jiyong’s final partner of the night was Mr. John Shedd, president of the wonderful Marshall Field & Co., the largest department store in the world. He was an elderly man who looked kinda like an even older Mr. Insull – same silver hair, same moustache – and, like him, was a philanthropist. That wasn’t the only reason Jiyong liked him (apart from the fact that he was developing a very specific ‘type’, but he tried not to let the girls’ accusations of _daddy issues_ bother him): Shedd was easy to please, always brought gifts, and one of those gifts was gossip.

“What d’you fancy tonight, Mr. Shedd?” asked Jiyong sweetly; this trick liked his partners pert but obliging.

“Oh, that pretty mouth of yours.” Shedd smiled at him and gave him another sip of his champagne cocktail. “But first…”

“You heard something good?” demanded Jiyong with an answering smile, straddling the man’s thigh to lean against him and tease him at the same time. They were in one of the small sitting rooms off the Salon, and the chance of being walked in on was titillating to many clients. “Is it about the Mayor again?!” He’d never imagined the Prohibition laws would create so many fun crises and sensational tales, but every week there was something new.

“No, my sweet,” said Shedd, as his hand gave Jiyong’s ass a proprietary squeeze. His eyes twinkled. “ _This_ time it’s about your boss!” Jiyong’s mouth dropped open before a burning curiosity turned it into a grin. Mr. Insull? Surely not! He’d learned enough from the girls and the other johns in his time at the House to know that his keeper’s image was of the most strait-laced and boring of men – other than his halfhearted ownership of a brothel and his scandalous liaison with Jiyong himself, of course, but that was hardly common knowledge.

“He’s got a new mistress,” Shedd told him with a wink. “Didn’t you know? Name of Florence – very lovely chippy, I hear.” Jiyong stared at him silently.

“…Where?” he said eventually. “In the lakeside place?”

“No.” His companion laughed and drew him closer, looking delighted at Jiyong’s astonishment. “In the new Edison building itself! My latest secretary says there’s a sweet little penthouse hidden above his offices – Sam’s wife hired her a couple of months ago to figure out what’s got him so busy at night, and she had herself placed as his temporary secretary in a twinkling. And what did my young lady detective discover when Mr. Thomas Edison noticed her charms and invited her to lunch? A secret door and a double date waiting for her! She tells me this Florence is an absolute flower. Oh, Sam’s a crafty dog!”[9]

“...Wow,” was all Jiyong could manage, his thoughts racing fast as brushfire. Shedd nodded, pleased with his gossip. Jiyong absently rewarded him with a kiss, but as the guy was undressing him all he could think was – _of course_. This was why his keeper hadn’t been doing a whole lotta keeping lately; why Jiyong had been wondering every day when his next visit would come. He’d assumed Mr. Insull was overworking as usual, he knew how ambitious the man was; and now he was trying to keep _two_ bits on the side? Or… He pursed his lips pensively as he sank to his knees and undid Shedd’s fly. Or perhaps that wasn’t the case at all: perhaps he’d simply swapped one for the other – and hadn’t said a word to Jiyong.

* * *

Jiyong decided he was pissed about the whole thing with the mistress simply ‘cos it was _rude_ . He wasn’t so much scared at the prospect of losing Mr. Insull’s financial support: he was doing well enough in the House now that he believed his place and career were assured on his own merits. As to losing his guardian’s affection? Well, perhaps there’d not been that much of it in the first place if it could be so easily turned; and it wasn’t as if they’d ever been _lovers_ in any kinda mushy sense. So why should Jiyong care? The thing that bugged him was that Mr. Insull hadn’t thought it worth the bother of _telling_ him.

“You kidding me?” said Lily with a roll of her emerald eyes when Jiyong finally cracked and asked her advice – he had to complain to _someone_.

“No,” replied Jiyong sulkily. “He might at least’ve let me know, don’tcha think?” She gave him a pitying smirk.

“Now why should he feel the need to do that?”

“Well, why _wouldn’t_ he? He used to spend bloody ages narrating his day to me.” Jiyong kicked at one of the logs under his feet, unable to stop himself imagining it was Mr. Insull’s head. “Unless he _knows_ he’s being a heel.”

“You dingbat,” grumbled Lily, inhaling smoke. “Boy, I’m glad I’m past the teenage phase – it’s addling your brains.”

“Shut up.”

“Why would the most powerful man in Chicago bother justifying his dalliances to _anyone_ ? Use your loaf, Jiyong, don’t make a big thing outta this – you _know_ you’ll regret it.” Jiyong wilted and slumped back against the woodshed wall; he wanted a cigarette, he’d heard they calmed the nerves, but his officious keeper still told him _no_. However, if Mr. Insull was gunna be too busy with his ‘flower’ of a Florence, why shouldn’t he? “No,” said Lily, slapping his hand as he reached for her smokes. “I’ll get in trouble.” They sat there in mutually irritated silence for a minute.

“…He’s lost interest in me, hasn’t he,” Jiyong muttered sadly. It’d happened before with his last mistress, according to Lizzie; it was bound to happen again.

“You simp,” Lily told him. “‘Lost interest’? Jesus, what was he like when you _first_ met?”

“Huh?” The redhead gave him a withering look.

“He barely set foot in the House before _you_ started living in it: half the care and attention he gives this place now is ‘cos of you.” Jiyong snorted but kept listening. “So he doesn’t come around every day!” continued Lily. “Big deal, he’s a busy man – if he didn’t care for you he’d leave everything to Thompson like before and we’d see him maybe once a quarter. He doesn’t _like_ this business, Jiyong; he likes _you_.”

“Why keep some other floozy stashed away, then?!”

“You’re such a kid still. Listen, dummy, a mistress is something else – if you’re a big businessman you almost _need_ one, it’s like a…an official position. That’s what Eleanor’s doing in Texas, that’s what she’s _for_ : it tells the other fat cats you’re part of their club.” Jiyong opened his mouth. “But she’s gotta be a _she_ !” Lily plowed on. “The boss can parade you all he likes, pretend you’re his ward or a charity case, and the good-time guys who come to the House aren’t gonna say a word. But he can’t bring a _boy_ to the house parties, those luxury weekends in the palaces of the wealthy, ‘cos that’s where business really gets done! Oh, none of ‘em take their _wives_ to those things either, they wanna have a good time after all. But can you see yourself being accepted next to all the glamorous girlfriends?”

“S’pose not,” said Jiyong unwillingly.

“What would his new industry acquaintances think of him?” insisted Lily. “‘Not in the club’, is what they’d think – and byebye goes his chance at a million-dollar rail contract!”

“Hmph.”

“So lay off being jealous. Idiot.”

“I’m not! I just don’t see why he can’t come see me too, if she’s only an _accessory_.”

“Well,” said Lily, evidently sick of him: she clambered down off the woodpile. “If you’re crazy enough to ask him about it, it’s your funeral.”

Left to himself, Jiyong sighed deeply. Lily had made him feel marginally better, but there was still an unpleasant feeling in his stomach that wouldn’t go away. He _wasn’t_ jealous, of course; he didn’t love Mr. Insull. But there was such a thing as common courtesy, and for the first time he felt his patron was severely lacking in that department. _That_ was what had him riled up, not…anything sappy. No way.

* * *

Despite Lily’s warning Jiyong was still cross enough to bring it up the next time his keeper came around – well, kinda. He wasn’t _completely_ stupid.

It was afternoon and Mr. Insull had arrived to look over some paperwork that was too sensitive (which Jiyong took to mean ‘scandalous’) to carry outta the House. He was in his large office on the first floor, Jiyong curled up in the chair right next to him in a new robe that looked like a Chinese gown – one of his tricks had brought it back from a trip to Singapore and it felt good, slippery and cool against his skin. He still liked to watch the older man work: he admired his mind, and it reminded him of when he was younger back in the apartment; when his keeper had felt almost like a father to him. Mr. Insull would occasionally glance up from his documents, gaze drawn to the bared flesh of his thigh where the robe was slit shockingly high. Jiyong figured this was as good a time to begin as any, before he lost his attention.

“You gunna stay over, Sir?” he asked sweetly – he had two tricks scheduled and could probably pick up a couple more in the Salon, but if his patron wanted to spend the night Jiyong would happily give up those wages and this looming conversation in a second; it wasn’t like he was asking for the moon! He just wanted a little reassurance. Mr. Insull set down his fountain pen and ran his fingers along Jiyong’s leg in what felt like appreciation; it was a comfort to know he could still arouse the older man. Then:

“Unfortunately I have business tonight,” Mr. Insull said; he didn’t sound resigned but that wasn’t his way in any case. Jiyong frowned. “A late board meeting at the office, then a supper.” Oh, Jiyong knew damn well what kinda meeting he was having!

“Please?” he cajoled softly, covering his keeper’s hand with his own smaller one. “I haven’t seen you in _ages_.” No reaction. Dammit, why didn’t that work on him?! One hint of a pout and half Jiyong’s regulars would be falling over themselves to indulge him, but not Mr. Insull: he merely waited, shrugged, and said with a sigh:

“Business comes first, as you well know.” It sounded almost like an afterthought when he added: “It does not mean I don’t miss you.” Jiyong felt his face turn crestfallen, but mentally steeled himself: he was gunna have to say his piece. He wished he’d had a drink first! His own courage would have to do by itself, however, so he took a breath and drew away from Mr. Insull’s hand.

“…You got bored of me, huh.” He didn’t mention the new mistress in case the man misunderstood and thought he _was_ jealous; besides, his neglect of Jiyong was clear as day on its own. Mr. Insull removed his hand to the desk and stared.

“Whatever would make you think that?”

“I observe, I conclude,” said Jiyong, more bitterly than he’d meant to. Where was all this _feeling_ coming from? Lily always said it was just his age – he really hoped so, ‘cos it _hurt_.

“Hmph. Your process is not usually so logical.”

“I’m not stupid, Sir.” Jiyong scowled; was Florence a smart, accomplished woman? He bet she was. “…Whatever you might think of me.”

“I think you are being a very rude young man.”

“I hardly ever see you anymore,” said Jiyong angrily. “I gotta take the chance to have my say while you’re actually here!”

“What makes you imagine you have any say at all?” inquired Mr. Insull, cool as a cucumber. “My time is my own.” He huffed through his nose. “ _Your_ time is my own.”

Jiyong pursed his lips, ‘cos that was true, wasn’t it, at least from his keeper’s point of view: Jiyong might as well be a decorative object, or at best a highly-trained pet. He hadn’t minded, not at all, when he was getting plenty of attention and assurance of Mr. Insull’s regard – but if that was all in the past then didn’t he have the right to make some changes? Smoking would be the least of it! Perhaps, he thought (though not very calmly), it was time to be his own man; at least a little bit. It was nothing to do with this Florence, he told himself – he knew better than to let the green-eyed monster in. No, this was about growing up and moving on; after all, a chick had to leave the nest _sometime_. He smiled at his employer; if that was all Mr. Insull wanted to be, that was how Jiyong would think of him from now on.

“Let’s just see about that, Sir.” It was an insolent smile, he couldn’t help it. It went down about as well as he’d expected: Mr. Insull made a ‘tsk!’ sound and for the first time ever walked right outta the room, leaving his paperwork and banging the office door behind him. Giddily Jiyong wondered if he’d head straight to his mistress’s place. He wondered when he’d see him again. What did it matter, anyway? The old man didn’t own him _or_ his feelings – and Jiyong would do something to prove it.

* * *

Jiyong counted a month and a half from the day they had their fight, and in that time Mr. Insull didn’t come around once; he dealt with the issues of the House by telephone or by meeting Thompson elsewhere. Jiyong didn’t know if he was still truly angry or if he’d merely taken his employee’s rudeness as a reason to do what he’d wanted to do anyway. And at this point Jiyong didn’t care. That was why he’d made a special date with a certain House regular: he was the very person to help Jiyong rebel.

Jiyong was tremendously excited as he climbed into the Bentley, paper tucked safe in his pocket and ready to begin his own personal War of Independence. He greeted the old sailor with a giddy smile – well, he _said_ sailor, the man was a four-star Admiral – and Coontz gave him a big grin back.

“Sure about this, my lad?”

“Sure I’m sure!” The Admiral tipped him a conspiratorial nod and waved at the chauffeur to drive on. He was looking forward to this, Jiyong could tell: the old man might be naval aristocracy and a many-times veteran but he was an awful reprobate. There was nothing he seemed to find more fun than abetting the girls’ bad behavior: helping them sneak out to meet their boyfriends, smuggling in liquor when Mrs. Moore and Thompson were being stingy with the House stash. So when he’d had his first encounter with Jiyong soon after his sixteenth birthday and the boy had expressed great admiration and interest for a certain part of his body, he’d proven only too happy to help Jiyong misbehave similarly.

They drew up halfway down South State Street near Van Buren and got out. Jiyong tidied his hair – he’d pre-emptively thanked Coontz with a backseat suck – and stepped carefully onto the sidewalk. This was the kinda street he’d walked down every day as a kid, but his shoes and his pants were too nice now not to watch where he was putting his feet. The Admiral slung an arm round his shoulders and led him past a couple of barely concealed brothels (nothing like the House, thought Jiyong with some disdain) into a tattoo parlor.

“How do, Gib?” he greeted the young man who’d been bent over the forearm of what looked like a naval cadet; probably from up at the base on Lake Michigan, supposed Jiyong. The tattooist glanced up from his sweating victim and saluted with his free hand.

“Admiral! Good to see you, Sir.”

“Got another one for you when you’re finished with that lad,” said Coontz, and perched Jiyong on a stool so he could get a good view of what the sailor was having done; it looked like a girl’s name. The tattoo artist nodded and bent over again; there was a thin metallic sound from the pen in his hand. The sailor hissed but held himself still. Jiyong looked on, wide-eyed.

“ _Still_ sure?” inquired Jiyong’s enabler, who was chuckling at his expression.

“…He is good, right?” replied Jiyong in an anxious whisper.

“Boy’s a genius.” Coontz took a hip flask from his pocket and gestured with it at Gib before taking a swig. “Left his ink on sailors all over the world, myself included.” He held out the flask to Jiyong. “Here, want some dutch courage?” Jiyong took a gulp and gasped: he wasn’t much used to hard liquor yet, Mr. Insull was still stingy with how much he was allowed to have, and whatever the hell was in that flask was like burning coals all down his throat.

Five minutes later he was stripping off his jacket and shirt and taking a seat in the chair, and he had to concede the Admiral was right: he felt just brave and dumb enough to go through with it, and however bad it hurt it couldn’t be as awful as the dentist. He passed his slip of paper to the tattooist, who asked him where he wanted it. They discussed it a bit, Coontz drinking and grinning throughout. Then Gib marked the design on him, asked him one more time if he was gunna chicken out. Jiyong took another drink and shook his head: this was it, a permanent signal of his independence on his skin – and a big middle finger to his indifferent boss. The tattoo machine started up, the tip moving closer and closer to his flesh. Jiyong shut his eyes, whimpered, but took it like a man.

Afterwards he admired his reddened shoulder in a mirror. It was exactly as he’d imagined it: a series of roman numerals – he’d just learned about them the month before – snaking from the base of his neck to where the top of his left arm began. He’d checked with the Admiral to make sure he had the number right; now the old man was clapping him on the back and praising him. His chortle had an edge to it that said he knew how much goddamn trouble Jiyong was gunna get in over this, but Jiyong didn’t care: no-one could ever deny he was his own man and not someone’s pet now!

“How d’you want to be paid?” Coontz was asking the artist. “Cash or trade?” He waggled his bushy eyebrows.

“That’s one sailor’s habit I never picked up,” said Gib with a shake of his head at Jiyong. “Cute though you are. Ten bucks, if you please.” Jiyong sighed and reached for his pocket; he supposed he couldn’t charm everyone. But the Admiral stopped him and handed over double the cash with a pleasant if sadistic grin.

“It was worth it to see you squeal, my boy. And to see how the boss man is going to take it!”

Jiyong nodded and bit his lip; he wondered what was coming, too. Whatever it was, it would _have_ to be worth it – ‘cos there was no going back now.

* * *

It didn’t take long for word to get around: a couple of days. Jiyong had been able to hide the tattoo for a night or so; it was covered with gauze in any case, and so long as they could reach the parts they were interested in most of his tricks didn’t care if he kept his kimono or shirt on. But the next day Jiyong had to double up with Lily for a three-way with a bank director, and in a matter of seconds she’d noticed.

“Lemme see,” she demanded once the trick had gone and left them to clean up. They were sitting on her bed getting their breath back and waiting for the maid to bring fresh sheets. Jiyong sighed. She beamed at him and tied her red hair back in a knot. “C’mon, did you really?!”

“Yeah,” said Jiyong, and bared his shoulder. Lily ripped off the tape and gauze quick enough to make him yelp.

“ _Wow_.” She laughed and traced the ink with one manicured finger.

“Ouch, goddammit!”

“You dumb shit,” said Lily, and bounced down on the bed, leaning back so her perfect breasts were on display. It wasn’t an invitation, and Jiyong had seen enough tits in the last two years to look at them without any more interest than if they were a sculpture in a museum. “You think this’ll make things better? Can you _imagine_ what the boss is gonna say?”

“I don’t care what he says,” snapped Jiyong defiantly. That was why he’d done it, wasn’t it? To show he wasn’t that needy kid anymore – that Mr. Insull might still (occasionally) be renting his body but he didn’t own the goddamn freehold, and that his approval or disapproval or even disinterest were no longer of much importance. “And if he’s not gunna watch over me properly he can hardly complain!” Lily gave him a long, evaluative look.

“‘Watch over you’?” She sounded pitying, and like she was gunna laugh. “What the hell d’you want outta him, anyway – a lover or a father?”

“Neither!” That shocked him a little: he hadn’t imagined himself thinking of Mr. Insull in either of those ways anymore, he was too smart for that. But was that what it looked like?! He sincerely hoped not. “This is about _me_ ,” he finished lamely.

“You talk a big game, Jiyong,” she said, amused. “But I’ll lay odds on you bursting into tears and begging forgiveness within an hour of his walking through the door!” Jiyong tossed his head and stomped off to take a shower. Just ‘cos she was too scared of spoiling her shot at the Number One spot to do as she liked! This’d show her who the _real_ top dog was.

  
  


Lily blabbed; he oughta have known she would, the cow. Jiyong supposed she’d tattled to Mrs. Moore, who’d told Thompson, who’d ‘phoned the boss, ‘cos in stalked Mr. Insull that very night – first time he’d set foot in the House (while Jiyong was awake, at least) for almost two months. Jiyong had always enjoyed it on the occasions his employer had shown up in the past: he knew that on those nights his tricks would be postponed or canceled. Then he’d get to sit by Mr. Insull as he went through administrative work for the brothel with Thompson or Mrs. Moore, and later be treated to sweets and a cocktail and an interesting conversation (or less interesting lesson) before the older man took him to bed. If he was really lucky he’d be taken out for dinner or to a small theatrical play or even late-night shopping (any store would open for this titan of industry merely on his say-so) before Mr. Insull came back with him to spend the night. Those were easy evenings, quietly pleasant, reveling in the smug knowledge of his colleagues’ envy. So Jiyong should’ve been delighted when his boss walked into the Salon and directly over to him. He wasn’t: he was terrified.

“Jiyong.” He gulped: Mr. Insull looked cold as an icicle, and he _knew_ ; Jiyong was certain he knew. Suddenly he didn’t feel as brave as all that.

“D’you want a drink, Sir?” asked Jiyong hurriedly, motioning over the barman. His employer rarely took alcohol but when he did it seemed to loosen him up. Mr. Insull ignored the offer completely.

“Go upstairs, please,” he said. It was his ordinary voice, usual tone; but Jiyong felt a shiver travel right up his spine and along his shoulder where his tattoo blazed black and inarguable. “Wait in your room.” Jiyong took one look at his expression and jumped down off the high stool. As he hurried outta the Salon he caught a glimpse of Lily holding out her hand; two House regulars and a couple of the girls handed her banknotes and she stuck them down her cleavage for safekeeping. Goddammit, she _was_ betting on him! Jiyong clenched his jaw and resolved that, whatever happened, he wouldn’t cry: he’d wanted to prove he was some kinda grownup – well _this_ would put him to the test.

He waited in his bedroom – his workroom – maybe fifteen minutes; he didn’t have a watch. He could hear doors opening and closing in the corridor around him, the faint sounds of sex from the other rooms, but he didn’t register any of it. He simply sat on his bed, hands clasped in his lap, and stared at his thumbs. What was to happen to him? The last time his boss got this mad he’d sent him here to the House and left the country; what if this time the man decided he was done with him completely?! What if –

When he next looked up Mr. Insull was shutting the door.

“Take off your clothes,” he instructed quietly. “Show me.” Jiyong stripped, pants first to prolong the inevitable, then everything – the shirt last, and there it was, his brand-new decoration; no more hiding. Mr. Insull exhaled very slowly at the sight of the tattoo, as if he hadn’t quite believed it ‘til he saw it. Jiyong stood still as the older man stepped forward and set his fingers to it, sliding his hand along its length and awaking the throbbing sting that’d just begun to fade. “Shall I ask why you did this to yourself?” said Mr. Insull once he’d finished examining it.

“I…” said Jiyong, too faint to hear. And then, ‘cos he was gunna suffer for this either way so might as well go into it head first: “I wanted to show everyone that I’m _mine_. That it doesn’t matter if you look after me or not.” Mr. Insull’s eyebrows drew down sharply. “…That I don’t hafta toe your line, Sir. Not always.”

“I see.” When his boss next drew breath it sounded shaky, and that in itself was more frightening to Jiyong than any words of anger could be. But when Mr. Insull ordered him to get on all fours on the bed and hold on he began to hope this would just be another spanking; the old man had never twigged that Jiyong barely felt it. Then he heard the rustle of cloth and glanced round: Mr. Insull had removed his jacket and was standing in his shirt and vest calmly unfastening his belt. He folded it in half neatly, the leather shining and well cared for by some valet. Jiyong began to tremble because this…this was new.

“Please, Sir…” he began, really starting to regret his stupidity. His employer shook his head.

“It is only because I care for you that I will not ask an enforcer to do this,” said Mr. Insull in a low voice. “Be grateful.”

“Do you, though?” said Jiyong spitefully before he could stop himself, too defiant and miserable at what was coming to stay quiet. All he got for that was the eyebrow, and the sight of the older man removing his spectacles; but he had gone pink around the ears, which couldn’t be a good sign.

“Don’t tell me your father would not do the same,” Mr. Insull said once he’d placed his glasses safely on the dressing table.

“How should _I_ know?” That was an extra stab, wasn’t it? His employer must know how it pained him to think about his dad. “And you never told me I couldn’t!” Mr. Insull met his eyes and raised his arm, and Jiyong turned his face away.

He heard the crack before he felt it, the pain bursting on the back of his thigh like a bee-sting. That was what he imagined, anyway, and it hurt so bad he had to cry out. After five more strokes it was a hundred bee-stings and he realized what hurt _meant_ – nothing his father had done had been anything like this, so methodical and calculated: the burn of it, the missed breath waiting for the next whistle and snap and the choked yell after it landed. His ass and thighs were on fire, and no matter how he twisted to avoid it the strap came down implacably. He could hear Mr. Insull breathing now too with the effort of it. Jiyong had lost count, there was only the rhythm you could set your watch by if you had one.

“ _Aahh_!” His hands lost their grip on the bedstead and he collapsed forward, burying his face in the pillow. Mr. Insull showed no sign of wavering and Jiyong had lost the ability to shout; all he could do was whimper into the covers. “…Please…” he managed, tears streaming down his face to be soaked up by the linen – his resolution had gone by the board around the seventh stroke. He couldn’t even tell what language he was speaking. “Sir, don’t be mad, _please_ …!” He didn’t know what it was: the tears? The begging? The shudder in his voice? All he knew was that the belt paused, and in the silence he heard an unsteady intake of air behind him.

“...Please what?” demanded Mr. Insull under his breath, and to his wonder Jiyong recognized that tone, he couldn’t mistake it! With an effort he turned his head a little so he could blink tearfully up at his employer: Mr. Insull’s face was flushed, his gray stare intent with what Jiyong to his astonishment knew was desire.

“Please, Sir, I…I’m _sorry_!” Jiyong stammered immediately, hardly able to believe his luck, head filled with the hope that if he could just turn this around the punishment might _stop_. Mr. Insull was regarding him with great focus, more single-mindedly than he’d looked at him for months. “…Please,” breathed Jiyong again, hardly knowing what’d come outta his mouth next. “…I just need you!” The older man stared at him another few seconds; then he set down the belt, turned the boy over and with the closest thing to passion Jiyong could remember pulled him close. Jiyong flung both arms around him and kissed him gratefully, and really truly meant it.

  
  


Later that night Jiyong lay against Mr. Insull’s side and reflected. He knew he’d been stupid now; he had an agonizing backside to prove it, and Lily had certainly won her bet. He had no doubt she’d find out, she’d probably had someone listening at the door. After the whipping Mr. Insull had been very willing to be pleased, and had even pleased Jiyong in turn. After _that_ Jiyong got a thorough scolding, but his patron was his normal self again so the only thing it made smart was Jiyong’s sense of guilt. And now here was Mr. Insull, back in his bed after so long with one arm around his shoulders and his attention fixed once more upon his ill-behaved ward, who was evidently in need of more schooling than the man had believed.

Mr. Insull had warned (promised?) Jiyong that he’d be keeping a strict eye on him from now on. And it wasn’t ‘til Jiyong was almost asleep that it occurred to him maybe _this_ was what he’d been trying for all along – that this dumb stunt was not revenge for neglect, not a symbol of defiance, but to _bring his owner back_ . He touched the tattoo, shocked at himself: was that really what he’d wanted? He sensed Mr. Insull turn to look at him and felt the old warmth blossom in his chest, wiping away what he now knew was the jealousy that’d clouded it. Oh, Christ, it _was_.

* * *

Jiyong’s ass came up so spectacularly bruised that Mrs. Moore would let him use nothing but his mouth and hands for a week – nobody wanted to see that, she said. She made one exception for a regular whose tastes ran mildly to the sadistic, and after that session Jiyong was grateful for the ban ‘cos it still hurt like hell. Anyhow, it gave him an incentive to better his other techniques.

“Was it worth it?” inquired Coontz, who’d popped over to hear all about the aftermath of the tattoo and laugh at him.

“Erm…not sure,” admitted Jiyong, who’d declined to take a seat and was instead standing beside the older man. The Admiral grinned at him.

“You’re looking a little sore there, son.” Jiyong nodded ruefully; but he was beginning to think that maybe he didn’t feel too badly about the whole thing after all.

To Jiyong’s secret delight Mr. Insull had come around the very next afternoon. He offered to take him out for tea but Jiyong was pretty much unable to sit down without yelping. So his owner called the House doctor instead, and after Jiyong had been examined and prescribed liniment Mr. Insull escorted his ward shopping. Jiyong lay on his stomach in the back seat of the Packard beaming to himself: Mr. Insull’s wallet plus his undivided (even remorseful) attention – could there be a bigger treat? His moment of horror at his own motives and needs was already forgotten, and when his patron led him into Marshall Fields he felt a flutter of avaricious excitement. In the old days the store’s toy department had been his faraway idea of heaven; now as they approached the jewel department he had to physically repress a squeal.

“Here,” said Mr. Insull, shepherding him over to a glass case lined with black velvet and flanked by two hopeful sales clerks. “Pick one.” The case was full of wristwatches, all of them with precious metal straps and sparkling stones. Jiyong shivered at their sheer beauty, and then at his own good fortune: he’d never been made such an extravagant present before, it was almost enough to make his ass quit smarting. It felt like a real gift, almost a lover’s gift. He knew what his dad would’ve said: that a man whose forgiveness could be bought with gold was no kinda man at all. But he was teaching himself to make it matter less; and the only authority figure who counted now was the one standing beside him. He stood there and agonized over the selection for a long time. Mr. Insull wasn’t looking at the watches at all but was staring at his face inscrutably.

“…This one?” Jiyong said in the end, pointing to a delicate timepiece that had to be white gold or platinum and was patterned with what looked like emeralds and rubies; he didn’t think his keeper’s tastes would run to anything less than precious stones. Mr. Insull nodded.

“Fetch Mr. Kreisler, please,” he instructed the subservient clerks. One of them hurried off and returned with a well-to-do looking man who Jiyong guessed was the jeweler himself. “Tell me about this one, could you?” Mr. Insull requested. The man lifted the watch from the case and gave it him, then began a long monologue about carats and craftsmanship that Jiyong didn’t really understand. Mr. Insull nodded – God, was he really gunna agree just like that, without even knowing the price?! “Can you fit it now?” he asked. Kreisler shot a covert look at Jiyong, then back to his keeper, but as there was no way in hell anyone was gunna say a thing to Samuel Insull about his boy-toy to his face Jiyong just gave the man a sweet smile and held out his wrist. Kreisler’s assistant measured it and the jeweler bustled off to adjust the watch band.

“ _Thank you_ , Sir,” said Jiyong in a low voice, moved and happy and dazzled by the glitter. Mr. Insull nodded, looking very satisfied, as if that closed the whole matter of the beating and the apology and the remorse. And Jiyong, his new sparkling mark of affection around his wrist as they re-entered the House, was content with the bargain. He now had a plan for the next time Mr. Insull began spending a few too many evenings with his mistress: after all, there were plenty more tattoos to be had.

* * *

Seventeen was a red-letter year for Jiyong: he went blonde for the first time, met the young Palmers and went to his first drag ball – magical, he had a new love! – and even learned to drive; was introduced to Mr. Insull’s illegitimate nephew and got to speak Korean _every day_ ; and took his first trip to the Opera.

“You are exquisite,” said Mr. Insull approvingly, his gray eyes gleaming as he looked Jiyong up and down. The younger man was wearing his first evening suit, tailored perfectly to fit him; patent leather dress shoes and patent-shiny hair swept back from his forehead in a wave. For just a moment he felt rich – not like a wealthy man’s plaything but as if he too had the right to slide into the back of a Packard and watch _La Traviata_ from a box seat. It was a wonderful sensation, as was the idea that his guardian had chosen _him_ for this treat instead of Florence.

It was the first time Mr. Insull had taken him to a large public gathering, let alone one for the elite. Lily could say what she liked, Jiyong was now confident his patron wasn’t ashamed to be seen with him. The Auditorium Theatre was like a palace, all red and gold, and the guests dazzled even more. What a collection of jewels! He was glad he had his wristwatch on, and took care that it was visible below his cuff. Mr. Insull observed his admiring stare with what looked like amusement.

“None of them are a match for you,” the older man told him beneath the hubbub, and set his hand in the small of Jiyong’s back. Without meaning to Jiyong felt himself smile.

He found the Opera itself confusing and more than a little boring – at least ‘til the bootlegged champagne emerged at the interval; Mr. Insull didn’t indulge but he made sure Jiyong had his share. Jiyong supposed Mr. Insull understood Italian: he was listening enraptured in the box beside Jiyong, that look on his face the younger man had only ever seen aimed at himself. Once he understood how deeply invested his owner was in the Opera he found that quite flattering, but ‘til then he’d been almost resentful of the skillful sopranos and tenors onstage. He was reminded again that night that he liked having Mr. Insull’s attention enough to not only miss it but actually be jealous when it was directed elsewhere. He didn’t especially enjoy thinking about that, or what it meant, and had tried to avoid dwelling on it since he’d got his first tattoo; nevertheless, there it was.

The interval made everything better. Mr. Insull moved through the select crowd with Jiyong by his side, displaying the younger man like a diamond and ignoring the puzzled or affronted glances of the people around them. He introduced Jiyong where necessary as a student of the Arts whom he had taken under his wing. There were several House regulars among the audience who certainly recognized him and looked knowingly at Mr. Insull, but Jiyong wasn’t often called upon to speak; to his relief it seemed his role was to _be_ a piece of art, and he was quite able to do justice to that. He could see them looking at him during the second act from the boxes across the way – could see their opera glasses trained on him and his guardian. He raised his chin and felt his lips curl upward at the knowledge of his own platinum beauty: he’d give ‘em something worth seeing.

“Did you enjoy it?” inquired Mr. Insull on the drive back home.

“Kinda,” said Jiyong, and hastily followed that up with “thank you, Sir.” His patron quizzed him for a bit on his favorite part of the performance, and sighed when he replied “the costumes”.

“I used to save my pennies when I was your age, just for the worst seat in the house,” Mr. Insull informed him. “It was the greatest treat to me.” Yeah, that sounded about right. Jiyong would rather make himself sick with candy or shimmy the night away in a jazz dive. “But I have plans,” said his keeper with an enthusiastic lift of his moustache. “Plans to make the Opera available to every person who appreciates it – and not those who come merely to peer at each other’s fashion in the boxes.”

“Oh yeah?” said Jiyong, wondering if the older man was having a dig at him. He suppressed a yawn; the champagne had made him drowsy.

“Oh, yes.” Mr. Insull sounded positively gleeful. Jiyong shot him a tolerant smile.

“I expect I’ll appreciate it more when I know more about it.”

“Next time you shall have a translation to study beforehand.” Jiyong pouted slightly: more lessons? But Mr. Insull clearly loved the Opera so much, and if it gave him personal pleasure to educate Jiyong about it he supposed he’d make the effort. He essayed another smile, more genuine this time.

“Yes, Sir.” Mr. Insull gave him what passed for a fond look.

“I’m very proud of you, my boy; you conducted yourself with elegance.” Jiyong figured that just meant he’d made Mr. Insull look good by standing next to him and keeping his mouth shut. Still, the praise warmed him to his toes – he leaned closer to his keeper, and decided he could definitely get used to the pleasures of high society.

* * *

Seventeen was also the year he became House Number One. It was the blonde that did it, he was convinced – that and Mr. Insull’s approval of his ambition. He beat out Lily and several other women for the spot, and in spite of their resentment finally got to move into the beautiful apartment on the third floor: two bedrooms, one with a balcony! A whole room just for clothes! And the loveliest bathroom and sitting room. Mr. Insull had it redecorated specially, the sitting room in the newest Deco style from Paris to please Jiyong and one bedroom in a grand old-fashioned English mode to please himself. The other bedroom was for Jiyong’s tricks, gold and Oriental silks and screens. Jiyong thought it was tasteless as hell, but the customers liked it and the bed was huge enough for any number of erotic games.

He didn’t know exactly what prompted him to take a peek around the attic lumber rooms one gray afternoon; at seventeen he was still scared of ghosts and reading all those horror stories hadn’t helped. Maybe he was bored – that still happened sometimes, when everyone was napping and Seungri wasn’t around to tease. When he stepped in he shivered: it was creepy, oh, yes, dark and cobwebby and full of shadowy objects draped in dust sheets. From somewhere above, though, came a vague ray of light, he could see it on the floor, a slightly brighter patch than the gloom surrounding it. He rounded a sticking-out corner of wall and peered upwards; and there, half hidden by a beam and tucked away, was a tiny skylight.

Why did that dirty, distant little window give his stomach such a twist of excitement? Perhaps…but he couldn’t get up there, could he? Dammit, that aperture could be everything to him: fun, freedom, the outside world…family. He stood craning his neck back and staring at it for a few minutes, forgetting all about the ghost. Then he crept back to his apartment and rummaged through his wardrobe room, looking for – aha. A set of overalls and a woolen sailor’s cap, a pair of more-or-less sturdy boots. How lucky that some of his tricks wanted him to play dress-up! A few of ‘em liked to pretend to be slumming it with the common man, and Jiyong had cheerfully obliged them ‘cos there was no-one at bottom more common than him.

He got changed quickly, shoving his hair up into the hat. Closing the door softly behind him he moved some boxes around the attic in wary silence ‘til he could climb up somewhat close to the window. That beam was still blocking it, though, you’d have to be a contortionist to stretch up and get round that to the skylight – if it would even open! Fortunately Jiyong was as bendy as they came, had been since he was a kid. It’d been damn useful in assisting his rise in popularity to Number One, and if he gave it everything he had it might be more so now. He tried, and succeeded – and gave himself a whole new lease on life.

  
  


It occurred to Jiyong later that perhaps the story of the haunted attic had been put about by someone – maybe Mr. Insull himself, maybe his predecessor – to discourage the workers from going in there and finding that reminder of freedom: boyfriends, dancing, liquor, drugs, the possibilities of that secret window were endless. It enabled Jiyong to visit his mom more often, to roam the streets and enjoy the pleasures of the Prohibition nightlife for himself, checking out speakeasies and dive eateries frequented by his new drag ball acquaintances on his night off. He couldn’t go all that often but it was the most fun he’d had since those long-ago childish playdates on the lakeshore. Sneaking out more of course came with more risks, and he got caught sometimes on his way home. Nobody ever figured out how he was doing it but that didn’t stop them locking him up.

It was still worth it, and only made it easier to both infuriate and captivate Mr. Insull, which came with its own benefits if you could catch him in the right mood. Jiyong used his latest trip for a new tattoo and the punishment he received to persuade Mr. Insull (in the short hours before the man stopped feeling remorseful) into buying them a new gramophone for the sunroom; and one of his younger tricks, a Mr. Elgin, gave him a small radio for his personal use – and then Jiyong was even crazier for his illicit jaunts to the nightclubs. From that day on jazz became part of the fabric of the House, and every worker there was brighter for it. They never played it when the boss was around but the fun they had listening to the latest records, learning the new dances for when their tricks took them out to nightspots, managed to make everyone temporarily forget their rivalries and petty dislikes. Jiyong felt pretty good about himself for that, which made the others think he was smug, but it didn’t matter; all that mattered was that things were going well.

Jiyong was fully settled into House life now, enjoying all the luxuries the Number One spot could offer him: spacious rooms, an extensive and expensive wardrobe, trips out with tricks, and an endless stream of gifts. His price was going up month by month (no-one else seemed to mind the tattoos), but becoming more expensive only seemed to make him more popular; he realized exclusivity was a valuable addition to his list of charms, and being the only boy available didn’t hurt either. He was able to send plenty of money to his family and even begin saving for himself; not that he spent much time thinking seriously about his future, not yet, but he knew it was important to have a stash. By now he’d seen every risk that could come with this job: dangerous clients, pregnancy (at least _that_ wasn’t a concern for him!), disease, falling in love with some man who made you sweet promises then turned out to be a con artist and ditched you (that was the worst, Jiyong felt everso sorry for the poor girl it’d happened to). He knew he’d better have a nest egg squirreled away in case some catastrophe occurred – or if, in the future, he one day found himself alone.

But such worries rarely surfaced: after all, he was young and beautiful and wanted. He had come to feel certain that Mr. Insull _did_ care for him – he was occasionally even a little jealous himself, of some favored client – he only needed reminding of it sometimes, and Jiyong now knew acting out could accomplish that just _fine_ . The younger man had decided that jealousy was an utterly useless emotion unless you were using it to get what you wanted, and while he’d grown skilled in utilizing it to manipulate his tricks he was adamant that he’d never let it mess with _himself_ again. He was simply determined to get what he figured was his fair due – from his clients, and especially from Mr. Insull. He’d learned to use it to keep his patron satisfactorily interested in him while maintaining enough space to express his own tastes. Mr. Insull wasn’t necessarily crazy for the cosmetics and exaggerated Oriental costumes, but he always seemed happy to be with him. He came around often enough for Jiyong to feel secure and spoiled, but not so often as to cramp his style or stop him enjoying the new ‘flapper’ lifestyle with Seungri and his younger tricks.

Best of all he learned that for Mr. Insull mistresses were something that came and went; even Florence. Jiyong was the only one who didn’t. He welcomed his guardian eagerly when he stopped by, and when he wasn’t around concentrated on his quest for admiring customers, expensive presents, and good sex. And for a long time he was almost totally content.

* * *

It wasn’t ‘til the end of his teenage years that Jiyong began to emerge even slightly from the spell that Tiffany jewels and luxury automobiles and praise had woven around him – hell, he still loved those things, more than ever, in fact. At the same time he grew dimly aware of some dissatisfaction within himself, as if something or other was lacking. He ignored it for a while ‘cos it was stupid: he was giving his family everything they wanted and more, and he himself was living a life the thirteen-year-old Jiyong could only have dreamed of! He had a generous and affectionate (if sometimes absent) keeper, so it wasn’t like his emotional needs weren’t being taken care of; at least, that was what he thought, and he pushed that niggling feeling down and away. It didn’t surface again ‘til right before his birthday.

“Feeling ancient?” asked Bethany, a beautiful Spanish girl and the newest addition to the House. She gave him a broad grin.

“No. Can it, why don’tcha!” It was true that at only seventeen she seemed practically a baby to Jiyong; she hadn’t learned to be cynical yet, or to tread lightly around the Number One. She was lucky Jiyong wasn’t particularly given to punishing those below him like Eleanor had been: he was too busy defending his spot against Lily.

“You don’t look a day over eighteen,” said Seungri gallantly as he approached with a bottle and ice bucket, sending Bethany off with them to meet her trick. Jiyong wrinkled his nose at him. “What you gonna do, anyway?” the kid inquired.

“What _is_ there to do?” retorted Jiyong with a shrug. “Work, I guess.” The younger man shook his head.

“You gotta do _something_ , Yongie. It’s a milestone after all!”

Jiyong knew it. His adolescence was almost behind him now: less than a month ‘til he was twenty! It felt like an achievement. He was looking forward to finally being a real adult – to being sophisticated like bloody Lily and no longer having to play up his nonexistent ‘youthful purity’ (though he was glad he could never be as grown-up as Emelie, who’d gotten pregnant on accident last summer and had returned to her sister’s house to have the kid – the others all thought she was nuts but Jiyong vaguely understood: she just wanted someone to whom she’d truly be indispensable).

He didn’t have high expectations for his birthday. Mr. Insull always gave him something but he wasn’t the type to make a big deal of celebrations, not since Jiyong had turned fourteen, and it was probable that’d been largely a pity party. Jiyong never asked his patron for jewels or gifts the way he did his tricks. He didn’t have to, they simply appeared on the regular, so one more on his birthday wouldn’t particularly feel like an _event_. Of course, if he dropped a hint to a client like Mr. Elgin or the Palmers he’d be showered with presents and feted at the fanciest nightspot in Chicago. But somehow he didn’t feel like it this year.

Both Jiyong and his guardian were so busy, maybe that was why he felt unsettled. Jiyong had never worked harder in all his career. Mr. Insull had just been made president (or had _made himself_ president) of the Civic Opera Association, and was happy as a clam exerting his will on the city’s elite to bring its finances back in line and make the Opera accessible to the common man (Jiyong wasn’t sure the Common Man would thank him for it but there was no stopping him once he got going), targeting every fat cat who got in his way with single-minded corporate vengeance. So _his_ schedule was fuller than ever. Jiyong didn’t mind so much when it was a genuine passion like this instead of one of the mistresses taking his patron away; but he couldn’t deny it left him with a…he wasn’t sure, but…something missing. _Was_ it affection? Or just being spoiled in person? He still couldn’t say. Perhaps this landmark birthday would be a good time to think about it.

“So?” continued Seungri, who as usual was like a puppy that wouldn’t quit humping your leg, “why don’t you ask Uncle Sam to take you on vacation?”

“ _Vacation_?” He’d never had one before: vacations were for proper mistresses. Sure, he’d been outta the city with tricks on occasion for a picnic or a pastoral fuck, but Mr. Insull didn’t seem to know the meaning of the word ‘holiday’.

“I mean, the guy practically has his own railway! He could take you to Wisconsin or Chain O’Lakes, show you…I dunno, nature and stuff.” Seungri sounded a little wistful, and Jiyong figured those were the kinda places his neglectful father – Mr. Insull’s brother, and Jiyong didn’t think much of the man[10] – had taken _him_ when he came around. “It’d be good for his stress.”

“Mr. Insull doesn’t have _stress_ ,” said Jiyong with a laugh. “And if he does he thrives on it!”

“Well, just ask. It’d make a change, anyway.” The kid put his arm round Jiyong’s shoulders and squeezed him fondly. “And you look like you could use one.” Jiyong shrugged; perhaps he would, ‘cos he couldn’t deny Seungri was right.

* * *

“Unfortunately,” said his keeper, once he was done looking mildly astonished at Jiyong’s suggestion, “Mrs. Insull and myself are hosting a dinner for the Opera Association this weekend.”

“I figured,” Jiyong told him, and leaned back against the blue-gray velvet of the couch with a sigh. He wasn’t surprised in the least; why, then, did he feel a vague disappointment, as if he’d been denied something important? It wasn’t like he’d especially _wanted_ to go look at trees.

“Perhaps I’ll be able to slip away after cocktails,” Mr. Insull offered, giving his silk-clad arm a fond pat and lighting a cigarette for him – his one concession to Jiyong’s approaching adulthood. “I should like to wish you a happy birthday.”

“Thanks,” said Jiyong, still slightly miffed.

“However, just in case I cannot…” The older man leaned ponderously down the side of the sofa and emerged holding a flat jeweler’s case. Jiyong brightened considerably and forgot all about smoking and sulking. “Felicitations, my boy,” Mr. Insull told him. Without wasting a moment Jiyong took it from him and opened it, and felt the permanent bars around his heart loosen just a fraction as they always did at the glitter of gold and diamonds. It was a ‘choker’ necklace and absolutely beautiful, the design intricate and the workmanship first class; Jiyong didn’t need to use his considerable skills at appraising presents to know the stones would be of the highest quality – this was Mr. Insull, after all.

“ _Thank you_ , Sir,” he murmured warmly, and put it into his patron’s hands so he could fasten it around his neck. It was wide enough to look like a collar, noted Jiyong when he got up to admire himself in the mirror; dangling from the front was a tiny heart-shaped padlock. Purely for decoration, he was sure, but the design said it all, really: that he belonged to someone, and in a very specific way. In a sense it made him feel treasured and valued, but in another…oh, he couldn’t tell. And _that_ was Mr. Insull too.

“You approve?” Jiyong saw his owner’s reflection watching him, moustache raised in his half-smile and gray stare admiring. Jiyong smiled back.

“You think you’ll be able to get away, Sir?” he asked, turning from the mirror to thank Mr. Insull the best way he knew how. He was delighted with his gift, but for some reason he thought it’d be even more special if his old man turned up to celebrate with him on Saturday.

“I will do my best,” Mr. Insull assured him calmly as Jiyong climbed into his ample lap and slid both arms round his neck. Jiyong kissed him, more or less satisfied; it was all he could reasonably wish for.

* * *

“He’s not coming, is he?” said Jiyong at ten-thirty on his birthday night. Seungri took his empty Martini glass and pushed a fresh one across the bar; screw Mr. Insull’s drinking rules, he was twenty years old and deserved to indulge – especially since his employer had stood him up. Jiyong was in a particularly doleful mood thanks to the black eye hidden beneath a layer of careful cosmetics; that’d been two nights ago and it was still spoiling his looks. He’d made a handsome profit outta that trick getting pissed and smacking him: he wasn’t a terrified kid anymore and he was tough enough to handle the customers who enjoyed such things – even more so ‘cos Mr. Insull disliked them and therefore made sure their little games cost ‘em the Earth. But it still ached, and he wanted comforting.

“Prob’ly not,” Seungri admitted, looking sympathetic. Jiyong ignored the tipsy smile of the potential customer two seats down, he didn’t have it in him to pretend to be interested in racehorses tonight. He didn’t want any of these men: they reminded him too much of Mr. Insull. None of these rich assholes cared about him! “My aunt can be pretty possessive, y’know,” continued Seungri, who was always making excuses. “She’ll try and stop him going out if he’s home.”

“If he wanted to he could!” Jiyong didn’t believe for an instant that his all-powerful boss couldn’t do as he pleased when he put his mind to it; he knew enough now to know Mr. Insull could do _anything_. Seungri sighed. “You know what?” said Jiyong suddenly, knocking back his cocktail and smacking the empty glass down on the bar, “screw him!”

“Fighting words.” The kid was grinning at him as he made up a tray of drinks for Queenie.

“Not just words,” announced Jiyong, sliding off the stool. “I’m going out!” Seungri raised his eyebrows.

“Now?” It was their busiest time of night; there were serving staff everywhere, Mrs. Moore was roaming the first floor somewhere – the worst hour to try and slip away. “You think that’s smart, Yongie?” Jiyong huffed and tugged the neckline of his kimono up.

“I don’t think anyone’s ever accused me of being _smart_.” The younger man sniggered. “I’ve done my scheduled tricks already; if Mrs. Moore asks, tell her I got a headache and went to bed.”

“Good luck!” said Seungri wryly. “Oh, right…and happy birthday.”

  
  


Jiyong dug out his overalls and flat cap and wiped off his makeup in cross, tipsy movements. He didn’t know why he was feeling this way: not angry, not quite, maybe…let down? But _why_? He quit asking himself as he escaped outta the attic skylight and down into the freezing Chicago streets – it look a lotta concentration to make the climb safely. He dashed in from the wet sleet to the L station; he was sure he wouldn’t meet anyone he knew on the train, his tricks only traveled in luxury. Once he was seated and on his way over to Wabash he went back to feeling disappointed. That sensation of incompleteness was stronger than ever before.

He still hadn’t put his finger on it by the time he exited the train and made his way through the South Side streets crammed with hidden bars; but he was maybe a little closer. He wanted to _feel_ something…not love, he didn’t think there was any of that left in him for anyone but his family, who in the past years of separation had become his all. Romance, then? _Something_ , anyway: something _new_.

A kiss would do it, he decided after several drinks in a basement speakeasy run by one of the local drag ball stars. Never in his life had he kissed a man who wasn’t paying for it one way or another. Wouldn’t _that_ show his independence more effectively than a tattoo?

“You kiddin’, right?” said the gorgeous African-American man in the beaded cocktail dress behind the bar. Jiyong had only met him a few times before, but being a bartender he was easy to complain to.

“Nope. I’m a whore: why give it away for free?”

“Ya know any man, woman or other in here’d stand in line for an hour to get a taste of those sweet lips, right? And they wouldn’t be givin’ you any shiners, neither.” The bartender’s own mouth was painted cherry pink and split in an encouraging grin. Jiyong glanced around the cramped room, at the mingled chippies and mobsters and freaks; yeah, he’d believe it. But he wanted it to be something…special. Like a story in a book. Christ, maybe he _was_ still a kid.

“Thanks,” he said anyway. “That sorta makes me feel better.” He paid his tab and stood up, wobbling just slightly. The bartender leaned across and patted him on the shoulder with a large manicured hand, then kissed his cheek beneath his bruised eye.

“Happy birthday, anyway. Hope ya get what we all want: handsome man, good heart, big dick.” Jiyong chuckled, as the guy had intended, and wrapped himself up against the cold. That sounded pretty nice to him – time to go find it!

  
  


At last he found what he was looking for – or one outta three, at minimum – wandering wonkily down East Van Buren at two in the morning. It was raining and if Jiyong had been less drunk he’d have given up by now and slunk off home. But as he turned the corner, all of a sudden he spotted the exact big game he’d been hunting: an unintimidating man walking alone into a shortcut alley, probably on his way to the station in the hope that a train might be miraculously running at this hour. Jiyong had gotten a good long look at him as he passed beneath an arc light, and decided he’d do nicely: he followed him.

The guy was walking slowly, speeding up every now and again as he passed some Italian speakeasy; perhaps he was a little wary, which made him not entirely stupid. Jiyong figured the man wouldn’t let him closer than three feet unless he got the jump on him; so that was what he’d do. Dashing ahead down a parallel alley he hopped across a half-built lot, scaled a high wall and jogged along it with easy balance parallel to his prey. This was more fun than he’d thought! At last his quarry twigged that someone was there, and before he could make a dash for it Jiyong dropped down off the wall in front of him.

“Hey!” snapped his mark, nervous and irritable but not threatening, though Jiyong was on the alert for any prickle of danger. “How about taking a look before you just drop in on a guy?!” Jiyong gave him a closer inspection from under his flat cap and smiled at what he saw. The young man was tall and strikingly handsome, and obviously tight on moonshine cocktails. Jiyong couldn’t say young and handsome men were particularly his type, but then again he didn’t meet many of ‘em. Better than his good looks, noted Jiyong, was that he was Asian! Jiyong had never kissed such an attractive and unusual specimen before; fearsome glower or not, he’d be the _perfect_ birthday present.

Without giving his soon-to-be gift a chance to escape Jiyong stretched up on tiptoe, took the man’s face in both hands, and kissed him. The guy was totally unsuspecting: he let out the most shocked sound Jiyong had ever heard, but by then Jiyong was pressing against his warm lips, hands caressing on his cheeks, using every ounce of skill he’d ever gained to make it _impossible_ for his captive to fight back. It worked: the man went still, then swayed into the kiss, gasping. Jiyong smiled against his lips. It felt so good to do exactly what he wanted for the _very first time_ that when he at last pulled back he couldn’t keep from laughing. The guy was staring at him with a dumb open-mouthed expression; he looked both horrified and entranced.

“Ahh!” breathed Jiyong, feeling almost giddy with the heady taste of freedom and forgetting to even speak English. “Always wanted to do that!” He was unutterably satisfied. The young man was still gawping at him as if _he’d_ lost the power of speech entirely. Jiyong grinned at him, the true gummy smile that only a very few people could draw out of him. Then he turned on his heel and booked it outta there.

“…the Hell?” he heard the guy say belatedly, sounding staggered. But Jiyong was already vaulting the crates stacked at the corner, and was on his way home with his birthday wish granted and a bellyful of satisfaction at cheeking Mr. Insull. By the time he was climbing the side of the House he’d ceased to give the handsome young man another thought. Jiyong didn’t even know his name, didn’t think he’d ever see him again. Why would he?

He didn’t yet know that in the space of a year Seunghyun Nevander would change his life – or that he was the key that could finally unlock the cage around Jiyong’s heart.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> 9In the very entertaining _Big Bosses_ , Althea Altemus, who was secretary to many powerful men in the 1910s and ‘20s, tells a story about being hired by a rich middle-aged lady to spy on her husband and find out what he was doing every night when he said he was ‘working late’ at his office. She got herself hired, and managed to attract the man’s business partner enough that he asked her to lunch on a double date. The two men took her to a hidden penthouse above her employer’s office and she met his mistress. Although the names are disguised, it’s historically accepted that the man who asked her to lunch was Thomas Edison, the jealous lady who hired her was Mrs. Insull, and her quarry was Insull himself (as she is proven to have worked for him and every detail lines up). In the end Altemus liked both Insull and the mistress Florence so much that she lied to Mrs. Insull and said her husband was in fact practicing Spiritualism in his office every night! ^^;[return to text]  
> 
> 
> 10This was Martin Insull, the brother who was found to be embezzling from Insull’s corporations and basically made things waaaay worse for him during his downfall. Definitely a deadbeat dad![return to text]  
>  And there we have it! You all know what happens next :)<  
>  I'm curious whether this has changed your image of Jiyong and Insull's relationship compared to _Bombshell_ and _Tales From The Top_ , or if you still feel the same about him XD
> 
> I'll be taking a break for a few weeks while I work on a different GTOP fic (which is turning out longer than I planned!). After that one I'll get back to researching and writing the next big sequel in this Bombshell series, so stay tuned! Thank you all so much for reading and your support ^o^


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